


Fine Print

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Consent Issues, Elaborate Wardrobes, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mand'alor Jango Fett, Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Mentions of Past Slavery, Mentions of past attempted murder, My God They Are Oblivious, Planet Mandalore (Star Wars), Planet Stewjon (Star Wars), Political Alliances, Slow Burn Short Fuse, Stewjon Royal Obi-Wan, stewjoni culture, tale as old as time burn as slow as fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:20:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 72,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27545224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jango is over ten years late for his wedding.If he’s being honest with himself - and he’s trying to be these days - he’d genuinely forgotten about the whole thing. He’s got excuses, and good ones, but it’s hardly a solid start to a relationship, arranged or otherwise.
Relationships: Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 1464
Kudos: 2197





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> At least 90% of this is the fault of the jangobi discord bunch. The rest is down to my appalling lack of self-control. Oops.

Jango is over ten years late for his wedding.

If he’s being honest with himself - and he’s trying to be these days - he’d genuinely forgotten about the whole thing. He’s got excuses, and good ones, but it’s hardly a solid start to a relationship, arranged or otherwise.

The decade has been cruel in ways he's is still trying to come to terms with, and there has been little time for him to catch his breath.

Now he’s on a cruiser headed to Stewjon to take the _riduur_ Jaster arranged for him before his death, back when his _buir_ wanted Jango to be happy, and Jango was willing to do _anything_ to return Mandalore to its former prosperity.

He’s still willing, and marriage is, in theory at least, a lot easier to navigate than another Civil War. Jango’s people might number among the greatest warriors in the galaxy, but Mandalore’s botanical, biological and restorative sciences have been neglected and underfunded for so many centuries that without help, they’re generations away from ever breathing their own atmosphere unaided. Jango intends to fix that, to give his people back the home they have fought so hard for.

“Cheer up! It’s only the rest of your life!” Myles’s aggressive cheer kicks Jango from his mental wanderings. Then his foot gives him a physical kick for good measure. They’re sat in opposite seats in the cruiser’s luxury lounge: Jango figures he owes his riduur a comfortable trip to his new home, if nothing else.

“I’m cheerful!”

“You look like you got slapped in the face with a Hutt’s nutsack.”

Well, there’s a mental image he’ll never be rid of. Kriffing hells. “ _Haar'chak,_ why do I keep you around?”

“Because we’ve been friends for so long that you’d be lost without me?”

“Too long,” Jango grumbles, ignoring Myles’s grin. “Alright,” he sighs, dragging a hand over his tired face before giving himself a shake. “Tell me about my future _riduur_.”

Myles claps his hands together in glee like the absolute psychopath he is, then pulls up a file on his datapad. The list of people most enthusiastic about Jango’s wedding starts with Myles. “King Ochi-Ta has four _ade_ ; your _riduur_ is the youngest. Obi-Wan, twenty-five years old. Fluent in - okay, I’m impressed - nineteen languages, including Mando’a, thank kriff, and... Ancient Yarkora?” They both pull matching faces. “Okay, that’s something. Advanced studies in xenobotony, astrophysics and - oh - interplanetary conflict management and diplomacy. Maybe he can teach you a thing or two?”

“Hey,” Jango complains, “I’m great at diplomacy.”

“You are many things, my friend,” Myles shakes his head mournfully, “but diplomatic is not one of them. Every time you get called to Parliament you look like you want to rip someone’s spine out.”

“Look,” Jango agrees, “but I never do. What’s that if not diplomacy?”

“Common sense? The last election took eight months: you’d have to go through all that shit again if you cut Almec’s head off.”

It’s true. It’s not the only reason he holds his temper, but it’s defiantly a factor.

“So I’m marrying a politician, great.”

“Could be worse,” Myles points out. “You could be marrying Kryze.”

That was once a real possibility. Satine’s long dead now, and Bo Katan is the head of Clan Kyrze. Marriage to her was once a route back towards reclaiming Mandalore, but they'd have killed each other before any real progress.

That was a year ago. Now he has restored his honor and avenged his _buir_. Now there is peace between the clans. Now they can rebuild. And maybe, once his union with Stewjon is secure and work begins on restoration, he can take a kriffing _nap_.

Until then, more caf. More caf, and then he needs to decide what the kriff he wears to meet his _riduur_. He’s a decade late for a good impression, but he can at least make an effort. Stewjon is only interested in this arrangement for the protection a union with Mandalore can provide, so it makes sense to deliver on that promise with a show of strength. There’s a reason he’s brought Myles along, and it’s not for the commentary. As _Alor’aan_ , Myles commands the _Mando’akaata._ Mandalore has no standing Army, the _Mand’alor_ dependant on the support of the clans in matters of warfare, but establishing the _Mando’akaata_ has been one of Jango’s earliest - and greatest - accomplishments as _Mand’alor_. A hundred _ori'ramikade_ from across the Clans. The closest Jango can get to realizing Jaster’s Supercommando Codex and rebuilding what Death Watch and the _Jetii_ took from them. They’ll put on a good show.

With another heavy sigh, Jango leans back against his chair and patches his com through to the bridge. “How long until we make atmo?”

“ETA forty-seven minutes, _Alor_ ,” the pilot responds promptly.

“Enough time to go make yourself pretty,” Myles smirks.

Jango flashes him a rude hand gesture but doesn’t dignify the comment with a verbal response.

Forty-seven minutes it is.

* * *

From the atmosphere, Stewjon is a lush planet of blues and greens. It’s orbited by four small moons, three of which, Myles tells him excitedly, have been given over entirely to the Royal Flora and Fauna Society for the enrichment and study of previously extinct species.

They land in the capital city of Corvie to an exuberant welcome and disembark the ship to streets lined with brightly colored trees and well-kept flowerbeds. Behind the green brackets of plant life, towering transparisteel buildings climb towards the sky, many of them adorned with balcony overflowing with miniature forests. SkyTrees. One of the many elements the Stewjoni government has proposed bringing to Mandalore to help repair the toxic atmosphere outside the cities. Jango has seen holos, but they don’t compare to the real thing and he knows he’s not the only one in his retinue momentarily distracted by the promise of returning home with new life.

The city is wild with color and jubilant with the sound of ringing music and this is officially the most excited _anyone_ has ever been to see a contingent of Mandalorians landing on their planet.

Up ahead, Myles takes point, leading the _ori'ramikade_ and then Jango towards a raised platform and a sleek land cruiser waiting to take them into the Royal Palace that sparkles like a jewel in the distance.

Four figures wait for them. Just like the SkyTrees, Jango has seen holos of traditional Stewjoni attire, but this is the first time witnessing it in person.

They look... well, they look like they’re inviting the Galaxy to rob them blind, which is exactly why they’re agreeing to this union in the first place. Two of them are shrouded entirely in dark blue robes, their heads covered by stiff hods and their faces hidden behind blank masks. They hold tall silver lances, and Jango guesses they are what amounts to bodyguards.

The central two figures are, according to the itinerary Jango has been sent, Crown Prince Kai-Van and Prime Minister Kane. The Prince is dressed in green, his heavy robes adorned with emeralds and faint tendrils of gold that extend across his painted face and into a headdress that extends a good foot in every direction. The Prime Minsiter’s outfit is a little more practical - her ruby red headdress only reaches as far out as her shoulders. Jango finds himself glad of his _buy'ce_ as he stares at them all.

That’s the _first_ thing that’s got to go: his new _riduur_ won’t last five minutes on Mandalore dressed like that.

“Lord Mandalore,” Kai-Van greets, his voice soft and faintly accented.

“Your Highness,” Jango has manners, no matter what Myles says. “Prime Minister.”

Kane bows her head and the teardrop-shaped jewels sparkle like drops of blood against her skin. “Welcome to Corvie. I trust you had a pleasant trip.”

“No one shot at us,” Jango says. These days that’s his mark of ‘pleasant’. Kai-Van and Kane stare at him in silence. “Yes,” Jango clears his throat, convinced he can hear Myles snickering beside him. “Thank you.”

“My Royal father awaits you in the palace,” Kai-Van recovers his smile first. “A light meal has been prepared for your troops, and we would ask that you join us as we finalize the details of our contract.”

No commando is ever going to turn away free food, and it would be rude to reject the hospitality of people who are very soon to be _his_ people, in as much as the _Mando’ade_ will be his _riduur’s_. Let them have some fun while he gets stuck in negotiations. There’s a reason Almec has sent the lawyers with him. They can negotiate all they want. Jango just has to nod or shake his head and try not to crawl out of his skin in embarrassment when they get to the personal parts.

“We accept your hospitality with gratitude.” He turns to Myles, “ _Alor’aan_ , see to the troops, then join me.” No way is Myles getting out of things that easily.

His oldest friend bows deeply, a mark of respect that is exaggerated in front of their hosts. Myles might be a pain in the ass most of the time, but he’s unflinchingly loyal to Jango and always has been. Their friendship behind closed doors will never influence the respect Myles will pay him in public. As so often happens in moments like this, Jango is struck breathless with gratitude that he’s found his friend again after the horror of G....

“Alor!” Myles snaps to attention and sets about his task. The troops are well trained and move in formation, leaving Jango to marvel once more at the beauty of the city as their transport whisks them away to the palace.

* * *

Careful hands slide a pin into the end of an elaborately coiled braid, pinning in place the final strands of Obi-Wan’s hair. His father has given him free rein to chose what outfit to wear when meeting his long-overdue _Grādh. Mando’ade_ aren’t known for their love of elaborate jewels or finery, so he’s chosen something he hopes will speak to their desire for renewed life and growth. As Shmi finishes the last of his braids, Oné lifts the tapered end of his brush from the corner of his lips and leans back with a satisfied smile.

“There! If he doesn’t fall in love on sight I am resigning and never painting again!” Oné has been Obi-Wan’s Chief Painter from the first days of his proposed marriage. Already a master of his craft, the decade has only refined his skills. It’s also led to some very dramatic bursts of overexcitement in the past few weeks.

“Our union is contractual,” Obi-Wan says patiently. “He doesn’t have to love me.”

Between Oné’s bleeding heart and Shmi’s maternal enthusiasm, Obi-Wan often thinks he’s the only one to remember that this is an arrangement of convenience, not the plot to some trashy holo-novel. His sisters have long since tumbled down that hill, and thanks to their incessant meddling the court musicians have a whole catalogue of songs celebrating the unbridled passion and enduring romance of the brave Mandalorian warrior who has spent ten years fighting to claim his love.

Wide-eyed romantics, the lot of them. The last month has been unbearable.

If Obi-Wan feels anything right now, it’s gratitude to Jango Fett for finally showing his face and saving Obi-Wan from yet another fifty-nine verses of ‘ _The Warrior King And His Prince’._

“Who wouldn’t love you?” Oné scoffs. “Wait-” Brush discarded, he reaches in with his pinkie extended. Obi-Wan obediently closes his eyes as a stray lash is flicked from his cheek.

“Head up,” Shmi orders, drawing his attention to the mirror beside him. He turns in his chair, his back straight and core engaged as she lowers the final piece of his outfit into place. As headdresses go, this one barely weighs a thing. “They’ll be here now, I imagine,” she says, carefully rearranging his hair and securing everything in place.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agrees. His datapad has only recently been put aside. It’s taken Shmi an hour to help him dress, and another four to do his hair while Oné worked on his Paint. Obi-Wan masted the art of multitasking while they work years ago. Today’s job has been to read the final proposals for the first three stages of Mandalore’s revitalization program before it is to be presented - alongside Obi-Wan - as part of Stewjon’s part of the union.

“Better late than never?”

Shmi is only trying to draw him out of his thoughts, but she knows him well enough now to know that he’s neither worried nor upset. Obi-Wan has had long enough to prepare for this change in his life. Had he married Jango when the proposal was originally made, perhaps he might feel differently.

He looks at Shmi’s reflection in the mirror, careful not to move as Oné helps hold the headpiece in place for her. “And you? Are you both ready?” They will be coming with him, that much is non-negotiable for his father. Shmi has no family on Stewjon, but Oné has a _grādh_ and two children of his own.

“Your _grādh_ isn’t going to lock you up, you know? You'll have visitors.” Oné chuckles. “It is time. New adventures!”

“New adventures,” Obi-Wan echoes.

Shmi offers him a hand to balance against as he slides off his stool, then she takes a step back and lets him appraise their work.

Obi-Wan stopped recognizing his reflection in the mirror years ago and now finds comfort in being a canvas for their art. Today, on the day he most needs to make the right impression, they’ve shown again how in tune they are with his thought process.

While his father and brother and other members of the court will be heavily adorned in weighted, gold and jewel-toned robes as a mark of respect for their valued guests, Obi-Wan has opted for something softer. Seven of his ten layers of fine silk robes are cream. The remaining three are pale blush pink. Tucked under the tight sash around his waist is a gossamer-thin overskirt that has been carefully embroidered with the delicate petals of Corvie’s native blossom tree. Fine vines curl around his waist and the collar of the robes. It's cut wide, brushing the edge of his shoulders so the matching pattern of flowers Oné has painted his face with can extend down his neck and across his collarbones. Under the voluminous sleeves, his forearms and wrists are similarly painted. Shmi has finished the look off by creating a crown of braids that support a headdress made entirely of the same blossom trees. Real petals, preserved at the peak of their beauty, hang from the branches and dance playfully around his face and neck.

The blossom was the first plant to regrow in the scorched ground of Stewjon following the Civil War over ten thousand years ago. Long has it and the peace it represents endured. Obi-Wan has waited ten years to give this particular gift to his _grādh._

 _“_ Stars,” Oné shakes his head. “We’ve made a terrible mistake.” Obi-Wan lifts a curious eyebrow. “Your father will cry. Kossak will never forgive me if it cracks the Paint.”

Shmi elbows him. “Hush!”

Obi-Wan takes one final look in the mirror, breathes in carefully through his nose and settles his posture into something his family can be proud of.

This might not be the way he once imagined keeping the peace, but there can be no questioning the value of this path, however winding it has been.

“I’m ready.”


	2. Chapter 2

The last time Jango sat down to negotiate anything this important, he set the tone for the talks by placing Tor Viszla’s decapitated head down in the middle of the table.

This time there is only a tea set. Decapitation is an unfortunate running theme in Jango’s life, but at least he knows how to handle it; he’s never been to a tea party in his life.

He tells himself it’s _that_ distracting him. The tea, with its fragile glass pot and delicately spun cups, is the reason he can’t think straight, and not the man sat opposite him.

All Stewjoni are _pretty_ , in a vain and pompous, dramatic kind way. They all adorn themselves in finery, paint their faces and wear their hair so long it brushes the ground. Jango’s braced himself for more of Kai-Van’s like: so overdone with jewels, stiff and ornate. He’s seen holo images of his _riduur_ and the only thing he’s been able to say with any confidence is that Obi-Wan has blue eyes.

They _are_ blue, bright and surprisingly intense, and set in a face that, paint or no paint, steals Jango’s breath away. In a people renowned for their beauty, their Prince is a jewel. Unlike his brother beside him, Obi-Wan’s clothes are almost delicate. They look soft, and _he_ looks like spring, and Jango’s another five more seconds of eye contact away from a mental breakdown.

Myles kicks him under the table, sharply drawing his attention to the fragile little cup being held out for him by one of the attendants. He’s removed his gloves and set them down next to his _buy’ce_ , but he still has to rest his hand _under_ the cup for fear of breaking it.

This is a test, right? To see if he can handle a cup before being trusted with an actual person.

Obi-Wan accepts his own cup, deftly holding back enormous sleeves with a gracefully pointed finger as he raises it to his lips and smiles at Jango over the rim. That smile combines with the flash of a carefully painted wrist and Jango inhales a good gulp of tea to distract himself from questions of how _far_ that paint extends below the robes.

He nearly chokes, then a rich, spicy flavor he’s not tasted in _years_ explodes across his tongue. He takes another sip, slower this time, then sets the cup down in surprise. “How did you get this?”

It’s Obi-Wan who answers him. “We’ve been recultivating the Vormur plant for some years now. Our goal was to grow a variant more adept to the climate changes on Mandalore, but our chief botanist informs me that the leaves were once quite popular as tea.”

“They were,” Jango says softly. The last time Jango drank this tea, Arla still lived.

They’ve shared no previous conversation before - never met, never corresponded in any way - and yet Obi-Wan seems to understand that Jango’s been caught off guard. He sets his cup down gently and softens his smile. “The hydroponic package we propose to reintroduce to the ecosystem includes a number of Vormur subspecies. Perhaps a thriving tea industry might re-establish itself?”

There are a lot of things Jango wants to say, and none of them suitable for the situation. While he _is_ grateful, there’s a small seed of resentment at having to seek aid from people with no ties to Mandalore. If this were an alliance between two planets of equal standing to trade and provide mutual protection that would be one thing, but the risks here are substantially more complex. Mandalore is to be entirely responsible for the protection of Stewjon and every planet in its system. Stewjon is to have an active - and intimate - role in the very life of Mandalore. The balance is a delicate one, with far too much potential for misuse on either side.

Jango is Mand’alor by the will of the Clans. He knows each one, how they think, how they operate, and most importantly, he knows what they expect of him. Even headaches like Pre Viszla and Bo Katan are _known_ headaches. He knows little about the man he’s to marry, his family, or his people.

They were supposed to have time. A year of courtship at least. Instead, he’s due to leave Stewjon in three days with his marriage in place.

Stewjoni costumes are just as effective as _beskar’gam_ when it comes to hiding the truth of what lays beneath the surface, and beyond Obi-Wan’s pretty, painted face, Jango has no idea what he’s thinking or how he even feels.

Does he resent Jango for making him wait so long?

Jango can’t rule Mandalore from Stewjon so there’s never been any question that Obi-Wan wouldn’t return with him to Sundari. Jango’s taking Obi-Wan from his home and his family, and while that might’ve been overwhelming ten years ago, his _riduur_ would’ve been leaving his adolescence behind on Stewjon and starting his new life on Mandalore in the first days of reaching adulthood. A new beginning, fresh with possibility and hope. Now they are both ten years older. Obi-Wan has a life here, friends, maybe even a lover.

Jango has sworn his own life to Mandalore and the hope for a better future, but what right does he have to offer up another’s?

He drifts in and out of the following conversation, lethargic and agitated in equal measure. Almec’s lawyers wage enthusiastic combat against the representatives of the Royal House, haggling on everything from the number of bases Myles and his _al’verde_ will need to establish through the Stewjoni system to effectively provide protection, through to the number of scientists that will be travelling to Sundari over the next few cycles, and who is responsible for their payment and housing.

All these things have been discussed in writing already, so why they need to go over everything again, Jango isn’t sure.

“As for children,” On-Duri-Ven, Stewjon’s lead negotiator eventually circles the topics back to something more personal, “it is our understanding that the line of succession on Mandalore is not inherited?”

Jango refocuses his attention. “No,” he agrees, “it is not. Familial ties on Mandalore have nothing to do with genetics. If I want a child, I will adopt.” It occurs to him a moment after he speaks that the decision won't be one he will make alone.

On-Duri-Ven nods and makes a gesture towards the droid transcribing the negotiations. “As His Royal Highness is now sixth in line for succession, The Majesties are willing to waive the requirement for an heir, on the understanding that should the situation occur when His Highness would be required to take the Throne, the succession would, on his passing, fall to His Grace, the Duke of Antairi. To be clear, no child you sire, Lord Fett, shall have a claim to the rule of Stewjon unless they are born of Stewjoni blood.”

How exactly can he make it clear that he would rather jump into an active volcano than be responsible for another system of planets?

“I understand.” Short. Simple. Lacking the ‘thank kriffing Manda’ that bounces around his head.

Obi-Wan‘s expression is completely placid. Does he want children? Would he raise Jango’s, if Jango were to adopt a foundling?

“As for copulation,” On-Duri-Ven continues, completely derailing Jango’s train of thought without a beat of awareness, “His Royal Highness has agreed to intercourse once every tendays until the eve of your first anniversary, at which time you may, in writing, request a reviewal of these terms.”

In writing. How proper.

Jango doesn’t look at Myles for fear of his friend’s reaction, but he imagines he’s pissing himself at Jango’s expense.

“I - that’s acceptable.” On-Duri-Ven lifts his chin in surprise and Jango finds it hard not to bare his teeth and scowl back. Do they honestly think he’s going to push for _more_? Is that really the reputation he has?

The lawyer continues. “You will provide His Royal Highness with his own suite of rooms and will agree not to enter uninvited. We expect His Royal Highness to be treated with the respect and dignity as befitting his status, both as a Prince of Stewjon and as your spouse.”

This time, Jango does look at Myles, who raises a pointed eyebrow in response.

Jango turns back to the conversation. Instead of speaking to On-Duri-Ven, he addresses his _riduur_ directly. “Your honor is my honor,” he says, his voice gruff as his throat tightens in discomfort. “I will defend it, and you, to the death. You shall not be mistreated by myself, or any other. You have my vow.”

The edges of Obi-Wan’s mouth turn up in a hint of a smile. “And you have my promise to show you the same respect, Mand’alor.”

It’s only then that Jango realizes he’s been leaning forward in his seat. He takes a breath and leans back. “Good. That’s settled. Is that everything?” The last question is addressed to On-Duri-Ven, who visibly bristles.

“Lord Mandalore, we are on clause eighty-six of a seven hundred and twelve clause contract,” he says, visibly pained by Jango’s impatience.

Myles doesn’t manage to hide his groan, and behind the sweet, enigmatic look on Obi-Wan’s face, Jango swears he’s laughing at them both.

It might not be the most auspicious start, but kriff, decapitation really would be less painful.

* * *

Eleven hours after negotiations begin, Obi-Wan is finally free to return to his rooms and start the long process of removing his outfit.

It’s welcome, and not because of any physical discomfort. He’s long since learned to ignore the aches and pains that come hand in hand with the fashion he wears, but there’s been no preparing for the emotional impact that has come with being so close to his _grādh._ Throughout the whole day, he’s wanted nothing more than to banish everyone from the room and just sit - alone - with the man he’s to marry.

Obi-Wan is certain he could've achieved the same results with an hour's peaceful walk with Jango through the Palace gardens, but as ever the politicians and bureaucrats get their own way. Now his shoulders ache, and Jango practically ran from the room the second it was diplomatically acceptable to do so.

“He has kind eyes.” Shmi’s priorities, as always, turn towards the worth of someone’s spirit. She’s an exceptionally shrewd judge of character, and Obi-Wan often finds himself seeking her advice in most avenues of his life. He spends more time with her and Oné than anyone else, and they have all discussed Jango at great length before.

“Forget his eyes,” Oné says dreamily. “He has _spectacular_ shoulders. You could climb that man like a tree.”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes as he raises his arms and keeps the long sleeves of his robes out of the way while Shmi unwinds the sash around his waist. “He is handsome,” Obi-Wan admits. He’s kept a holo of Jango close by for years now, and while he’ll regret never having the chance to run his fingers through the curls Jango wore as a younger man, there’s no denying that age and maturity have sharpened the edges of his beauty. He’s shorter than Obi-Wan, though his - admittedly attractive - shoulders are broader, and even without the helmet he so often wears, he was unquestioningly the most powerful presence in the negotiation. All focus in the room had been on him and his scarce reactions. Obi-Wan’s people have done a decent enough job of pretending they aren’t desperate for the union to be ratified, but they have ultimately acquiesced on every demand.

Both sides have. It's been the most amicable negotiation Obi-Wan has ever attended. 

Mandalore will have a full military presence on Stewjon, and in turn, Stewjoni scientists will be granted unprecedented authority in establishing a newly funded hydroponics department within the Mandalorian government. Mandalore will cover the cost of its soldiers, and Stewjon the cost of implementing their new programs. If you only follow the datawork, Mandalore is getting a _steal_.

Free of the headdress and the heaviest layer of his clothing, Obi-Wan lets his shoulders slump and rolls out the ache at the base of his neck. There are days when he’s patient enough to sit still and let Shmi hang and store each layer as it is removed. Today isn’t one of those days. Tomorrow, he is getting married. He wants a bath and the pretense of an early night before waking up before dawn to start the long preparations.

A gentle tug of the Force pulls on the strings neatly lacing the first of his robes behind his back. Even with that extra assistance, it takes the three of them nearly ten minutes to get Obi-Wan down to his small clothes and each layer carefully folded away. Oné hands him a simple silk gown to wear and helps him braid his hair loosely away from his face while Shmi runs him a bath, then he sends them both away to their beds for some precious and much-needed sleep.

He bathes quickly, taking only the time required to wash away the remains of Oné's paint. While he often allows himself a long, indulgent soak, today he is more pressed for time. After drying himself, he pulls a small trunk out from under his bed. There is no privacy in the Palace, and Shmi knows of its existence - can possibly even guess what’s inside - but she is kind enough to pretend ignorance.

The contents are not that scandalous on their own. Simple clothes - dark, well-fitting pants and a matching tunic, a pair of boots and a short, hooded overcoat. Not the clothes of a Prince. Closer, in fit if not color, to the clothes he used to wear _before_.

He dresses with equal speed, twisting his long braid around until he can tuck it up beneath the hood.

Then he hurries to the balcony, makes a quick check for onlookers, and throws himself over the edge of the railings. It’s a sixty-foot drop, one he lands without injury or sound.

It will be harder to do this on Mandalore. Impossible, on the nights he’s to spend with his _grādh._ If this is to be the last of his freedom, then by the Force, he will not waste it.

* * *

In his own suite, surrounded by a level of opulence that makes him reluctant to touch anything for fear of breaking it, Jango takes a flask from Myles and gratefully drinks down a large gulp of _tihaar_. It burns going down, but better his head spins from the drink than his own unhelpfully intrusive thoughts.

Tomorrow, he’s getting married to a man he’s shared only the briefest of conversations with. That’s enough to almost cripple him with anxiety. And then there’s everything _after._

Despite there being literal clauses put in place that dictate how often he’s allowed to share a bed with his _riduur_ , Jango has still managed to labor under the illusion that he’ll at least have some time to get to know Obi-Wan _before_ they take that step.

Surprise! Stewjoni marriages aren’t considered legally binding until _after_ consummation. Another one of their archaic traditions that have _no_ standing on modern reality, but are still clutched tightly to their bejewelled chests.

Decapitation would _definitely_ be easier.

“You’ll be fine!” Myles pats him consolingly on the arm before a look of panic settles over his face. “Wait. wait, you _have_ , you know-” the elaborate hand gesture he makes doesn’t belong anywhere near the bedroom, but Jango follows his thought process. “Right?”

“Does a drunken handjob from Isabet after the Battle of Sundari count?” Jango asks bleakly. This is fine. He’s fine. He’s not _against_ the idea, he’s just... if Jaster’d promised him to a kriffing Alderaanian, this wouldn’t be an issue.

“Technically, yes,” Myles sighs in relief, “but really? That’s it?”

“I’ve spent the last ten years either at war or as a slave,” Jango reminds him, refusing to address the subject in any greater depth. “Romance hasn’t exactly been a priority.” Before Jaster’s death, Jango’d been quite enamoured by the idea of waiting for his _riduur_ , and after... well, he’s been busy trying to not die horribly.

“Sex,” Myles protests, “has _nothing_ to do with romance.”

Is it too much to ask for an assassination attempt? An invasion? Kriff, he’ll take a lecture from Kal right now.

In a soft mutter, he says, “Now we know why _you’re_ not married.”

“Look,” Myles says bracingly. “It’s not hard, okay? Just... figure out what he’s got under those skirts and...” he makes another obscene hand gesture. “Or hey, the other way around. A good, hard fuck is actually very therapeutic.”

Absolutely nothing about any of this will be therapeutic. “There’s gonna be witnesses,” Jango mumbles, praying for the earth to swallow him whole. “You know, to make sure we, er, consummate. Apparently, it’s tradition.”

“Royals are weird,” Myles nods, “but I can guarantee you won’t be the worst they’ve seen. The ugliest, maybe-” he lines up the excuse for Jango to elbow him in the chest, which he delivers half-heartedly.

“I should’ve just eloped,” he sighs. Would it really be that bad if he engaged in a little mild kidnapping and sent a polite note once they made it back home?

“Yeah, but think of the free drinks!”

Jango clutches Myles’s flask to his chest. “I’ll pass. Go on, kriff off and let me get some sleep.”

“Let you brood in peace, you mean?” Myles knows him too well and sets aside his usual cheer. “You know we can leave. You don’t _have_ to marry him.”

“What if I want to?”

Myles claps him on the arm. “Then _let_ yourself want it. Let yourself be happy, _ner vod._ It’s all we want for you. All he wanted, too.”

Jaster’s face swims into Jango’s mind, and the root of his anxiety clarifies. He looks up and flashes Myles a grateful smile. “Rest well, _ad’ika_ , tomorrow will be a long day.”

Myles snorts. “Longer for you!”

Jango can’t help a wicked smile. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? We’re _both_ required to have witnesses.” The discomfort he is feeling settles a little in the face of Myles’s horrified expression.

" _Haar'chak!"_


	3. Chapter 3

This corset, unlike most of the others Obi-Wan wears to support his lower back, goes over his shoulders and laces up from the base of his neck down to the bottom of his spine. Obi-Wan slips it over his light undergown, smoothes down the edges of the fabric, and leans forward against one of the ornate pillars that separate the sleep couch in his rooms from the dressing area. Shmi carefully lifts his braid over one shoulder, then sets about lacing and tightening the corset. There’s nothing Obi-Wan can do that’s of any help right now, so he lets himself zone out, his thoughts on Mandalore and the work ahead.

On the vanity, Oné starts the careful process of mixing the paints he plans to use, setting small pots of color down in neat rows, ready to be called to hand. 

Shmi has all the laces fastened and is in the process of pulling each one tight when the door to the suite is thrown open and Obi-Wan’s brother makes a dramatic and unwelcome entrance.

Shmi and Oné immediately stop working and bow. Obi-Wan merely straightens. 

“Leave,” Kai-Van says brusquely, sparing neither of them a second glance. Shmi and Oné share a look, but make no protest. This isn't the first time the Crown Prince has thrown his weight around in their presence. Obi-Wan tries to catch their gazes and smile reassuringly but soon finds himself alone with his brother.

Kai-Van has yet to adorn the golden crown he will wear for the ceremony, but his robes hang heavy with black pearls. He raises a lace-covered hand and circles his finger around in a silent order for Obi-Wan to resume his previous position.

Putting your back to Kai-Van is never advisable, but with any luck, today will be the last day he will spend any significant time alone with his brother. Obi-Wan is confident he’ll be able to convince Jango and the Mandalorians that there’s some diplomatic precedent for ensuring a third party be present in future, brother or not.

He also doubts Kai-van will pick today of all days to actually murder him: it’s really not his style. Kai-Van reminds him of Bruck, and like Bruck, most of his barbs are designed to provoke a reaction. Obi-Wan has been messing with him for years now.

So he turns, and leans back against the pillar, allowing his brother access to the corset’s strong laces. Unlike Shmi, who is always mindful both of the value of the garments she works with, and the damage a poorly laced corset can cause, Kai-Van is brusque and callous as he tightens the stays. One sharp upwards tug leaves Obi-Wan catching a grunt of discomfort in his throat, but he’s kept quiet through far worse. 

“I was afraid this day would never come,” Kai-Van says, tugging again sharply. “That we would be stuck with you for another ten years.”

“No one wants that,” Obi-Wan says wryly, letting himself relax into the harsh tugging. When his brother pushes, he moves, when he pulls, he leans, and the ruder he is, the more Obi-Wan smiles at him.

“I was against it from the start - _paying_ for you.”

Ah. So it’s time for his brother’s favorite rant. He must be under strict orders from their father to behave today: usually, the topic is an unspoken one until the third glass of wine. “So you’ve said,” Obi-Wan responds, “at least twice every tenday for the past decade.”

Kai-Van never says anything new and never bothers to generate new insults. He’s still so deeply offended by Obi-Wan’s presence in his life that it’ll probably take at least _another_ decade before he’s recovered enough to start on the things Obi-Wan _actively_ does to annoy him.

“We got rid of you once-” he’s made it halfway up the corset, pulling tighter each time, when he pauses and pokes a finger through a gap in the laces. Obi-Wan’s undergown is fine and transparent under the light, but even should it be heavier, Kai-Van would still be able to feel the thick ridge of scar tissue along his spine. “Better not let the mindless beast we’re selling you to see these - it might give him ideas.”

Obi-Wan looks over his shoulder and smiles. “Dear brother, however will you hold your wine glass tonight with two broken wrists?” Kai-Van freezes and drops the laces. He stares at Obi-Wan, his scarlet stained lips pulling into a sneer that shows a sliver of the fear that drives most of their interactions.

He tried setting the tone and establishing dominance in the first few days of Obi-Wan’s return to Stewjon, and he tried it in a way that only the very spoiled and very sheltered could.

Headbutting his brand new brother and breaking Kai-Van’s nose probably wasn’t the best start to his life as a Royal, but in his defence... well, those first few months had been stressful. For all of them.

“I wish you’d drowned,” Kai-Van spits fiercely.

“It would have saved a great number of people a lot of trouble,” Obi-Wan agrees serenely. “But don’t worry, I’ll be gone soon.”

Oné takes that moment to timidly stick his head back inside the suite. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but if I don’t get started soon, we’ll fall behind schedule.” He keeps his gaze down and his voice meek and a sharp stab of rage skewers Obi-Wan between his ribs. He takes a slow breath in, lets his anger roll over him in a furious wave, and stands steady until the oceans calm.

For a second, Obi-Wan thinks his brother is going to say something else, but he only turns sharply on his heels and leaves with a flourish of velvet and pearl.

The moment he’s gone, Shmi and Oné rush back inside. Shmi takes one look at the lacings on the corset and tuts loudly. “That boy,” she says under her breath, picking at them one at a time. Obi-Wan pretends not to hear her. “I will be glad when you no longer have to put up with him.”

“His bark is worse than his bite,” Obi-Wan reassures her. “He’s very unhappy.”

“He’d be less unhappy if he stopped being an ass,” Oné says crossly. “Why you can’t just use that magic mind-whammy thing on him -”

“A Jedi would never abuse their powers like that,” Obi-Wan answers, his voice soft and his thoughts suddenly on the other side of the Galaxy.

“Well, you’re not a Jedi, are y-ow!” Oné yelps at the solid collision of Shmi’s foot with his shin. “Sorry, sorry...” He looks contrite but confused. The words don’t mean anything to him. They only mean a little more to Shmi.

“All fixed,” Shmi smiles as she takes a step back. “No more unhappy thoughts, _bhobain_.” She touches Obi-Wan’s cheek with gentle fingers and the fine lines around her eyes crinkle as she smiles. She, like Oné, has swapped her usual purple robes for ones of amber, red and yellow: the traditional colors worn at Stewjoni weddings. Her hair is tied up with strings of delicate sunspot flowers and her eyes lined with gold. Obi-Wan takes her hand in his and kisses her knuckles gently.

“As you command it,” he teases.

Shmi swats him with the edge of the comb she collects from the vanity behind her. “Enough of that. Save the charm for your _grādh.”_

 _“_ Poor bastard,” Oné sighs dramatically. He and Shmi manhandle him down onto a stool and start the long, intricate process of erasing Obi-Wan Kenobi from existence.

* * *

“Blue. Or - no. No, blue’s good. Myles, blue?” Jango turns with an edge of urgent panic and holds two tunics up for inspection. They’re both blue.

Myles, dressed for once in formal pants and an embroidered coat instead of his usual armor, stares at him in confusion. “We’re supposed to be leaving in ten minutes and you’re still not sure what to wear? I thought they picked everything out back on Sundari.”

“They did,” Jango agrees, throwing both tunics down onto the end of his bed and stalking back to his trunk. “What about this one?” The tunic he holds up for inspection is a soft, sandy brown, bronze and red embroidery at the collar and cuffs all shaped to represent the sigils of the Clans.

“That one’s fine,” Myles says.

“But it’s not blue.”

“So wear one of the blue ones!”

Jango is, in fact, mostly dressed. He’s swapped his armor for dark leather pants and matching boots. He’s even relented and placed a circlet of beskar on his head, just to please Almec and Parliament.

He’s just minus a shirt. Can he go to his wedding without a shirt? Is it better to go without a shirt than the _wrong_ shirt?

Obi-Wan will be wearing clothes. Beautiful clothes, no doubt. Jango _should_ wear clothes.

“Okay, blue,” he agrees, returning to the previously discarded shirts. “Which one?”

“They’re both blue,” Myles says flatly.

“Not the same blue!”

“Since when do you care what shade of blue you wear?”

That’s a good question. A fair question. One Jango is deeply unhappy about having to answer.

“Since my riduur is a _prince_ , and I’m-”

“Mand’alor.”

“-a farmer.” He would’ve been. If not for _Kyr'tsad._ He wouldn’t be Mand’alor, he probably wouldn’t even be a soldier. Oh, his _buir_ would’ve taught him to fight, but his heart wouldn’t permanently beat to the drums of war. He’d be a farmer. Marry young, marry quiet. Nothing exciting. Noting out of the ordinary. A simple life, with little expectation beyond the land and the things he might grow from it.

“Okay,” Myles puts a hand on either of Jango’s shoulders and forces him into stillness. “You are my brother. You are my captain. And you are my king. I would follow you to the fields of hell - and have, actually, you’re welcome - but Jango. You are a kriffing idiot. I genuinely question how you’re still alive with so much stupid circulating your veins. It’s impressive, truly, in a horrifying, kind of embarrassing way, and-”

“Is this your idea of a pep talk?” Jango scowls at him.

Myles’s shit-eating grin grows until it looks painful. “If you’re not happy with the service I’m providing, I’d be _more_ than happy to get Kal and Isabet on the comms-”

“No!” Jango says loudly, swatting Myles’s arms away and snatching the closest tunic. “No, thank you. Consider me pepped.”

“Atta boy!”

“Kriffing hells...” he pulls the tunic over his shoulders and focuses on fastening the buttons. Having something simple to do with his hands is a blessing, and it makes it easier to pretend he’s not losing his mind.

He knows how to be a soldier. He knows how to command a battlefield. He knows war. Sometimes he fears that’s _all_ he knows. Having a _riduur_ , being gentle and soft and looking after another person?

Obi-Wan isn’t Myles. He’s a prince. One who has never seen battle, never seen a fight. Born and raised in the highest position of power, and likely never been denied a thing in his life.

How exactly is Jango to keep a man like that happy?

“You’ll be fine,” Myles reassures him. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Jango takes a breath. “Thank you.” He picks up the heavy coat that will finish the outfit. It’s dark blue, almost black, sleeveless, knee-length and well fitted.

Myles steps in closer and helps him fasten the belt around his waist, handing him first his blaster, and then the darksaber. “Where you can’t see me laughing.”

If Myles laughs, Jango will either punch him or join him. Either will likely get him kicked out of his own wedding.

Jango shoves him in the chest. “And to think I actually missed you.”

Throwing a loose arm around his shoulder, Myles throws his head back and laughs. “I know! You’re crazy!”

Crazy. That sounds about right.

Crazy, and seriously out of his depth.

* * *

Unlike Mandalorian weddings, which are one part vows, three parts drinking, weddings on Stewjon are, to the surprise of no one, hugely elaborate affairs.

The first stage, after arriving in the Palace’s main antechamber, is to take his part in a procession that is to walk two kilometres between the Palace and the Hall of Memories where the ceremony will take place. That’s due to take over an hour, their parade accompanied by over a hundred musicians and what sounds like half the planet’s worth of spectators.

That’s stage one. Of a five-stage ceremony.

When they arrive, they get to plant trees. Thirteen of them.

When that’s done, they make their vows. A feast for over a thousand guests follow - something Jango has been informed lasts for upwards of six hours - and then there’s the sex part.

After which, Jango is assured, he will be officially married and free to take a nap.

He really, really hopes Obi-Wan isn’t too disappointed when they return to Sundari to repeat the process, get through their vows in five minutes and spend the rest of the night listening to war songs and tales of valor that will grow increasingly more outlandish with each refill of _ne'tra gal._

Kriff, will his _riduur_ even have tasted ale before?

And there's little doubt Bo Katan and Pre Vizsla will eat Obi-Wan alive.

A sudden blast of trumpets draws him back from future worries to his current predicament, and without doubt the most ridiculous event Jango has ever been part of. He can’t tell if it’s this bad because it’s a Royal wedding, or if this level of insanity is just normal.

When Jango asks, he gets a filthy look from a young woman in a solid gold headdress, who doesn’t seem to realize he’s the one getting married. “We would’ve had a dress rehearsal if your King had been here on time!”

“Technically, I’m not a king,” Jango says mildly. “But I am sorry I’m late.”

She looks up from the datapad she’s clutching, going pale under the red and orange paint on her face. “I- oh - Lord Fett, I’m-” before she can pass out, there’s a confused shout from across the waiting room, and she’s scurrying over towards it, datapad waved over her head.

There are close to fifty people in the room with him: attendants hurrying in every direction, darting between twenty masked figures in flowing robes who stand at silent attention; others barking directions and orders at anyone foolish enough to stand still for too long.

Jango’s only been waiting in the antechamber for five minutes, and already he’s reminded of the controlled chaos before a battle.

It’s oddly soothing.

Myles and five members of the _Mando’akaata_ wait in formation behind him. The _al’verde_ are in _beskar’gam_ and Jango envies them the comfort of their armor.

Then the door to his left opens, and he has barely a second’s warning before his _riduur_ steps into the room.


	4. Chapter 4

The streets of Corvie ring with the sound of a hundred trumpets and the soft pink blossoms that fall in gentle waves from the sky blanket the streets like fragrant snow. The whole city has turned out in celebration and their elation hammers against Obi-Wan’s mind, wild and excitable. He hasn’t yet slept, opting for caf and light meditation while Shmi and Oné worked, and being at the center of so much joy and excitement leaves Obi-Wan feeling giddy. He’s having a hard time keeping a straight face as pairs of dancers spin around them in dizzying circles, alternatively gathering handfuls of the fallen blossom to throw in the air and leaping dramatically into each other’s arms. 

For that reason alone, he’s forcing himself to keep his gaze fixed ahead. If he looks at Jango he’s going to lose the fight. 

For a man who seems to avoid the usual excess and finery that is associated with rule, Jango is still breathtaking. The circle of beskar on his brow sets him apart from his kin and draws all attention to the starlight captured in his dark eyes. He has a tell - something he only seems to do when he thinks no one is looking - and worries at his bottom lip with his teeth, leaving him with a mouth that Obi-Wan is yearning to know if it’s as soft as it looks. 

Broad shoulders fill out the lines of his heavy overcoat, and despite it being his own wedding, a blaster is strapped to his thigh and the infamous darksaber hangs from his belt. He looks every bit the warrior king the bards sing of, and for his sake, Obi-Wan hopes he manages to stay oblivious to the sheer amount of poetry that’s been penned in his name. 

Every so often, a stray petal drifts to brush his face and his nose wrinkles as he tries to subtly blow it away. 

Obi-Wan keeps his gaze forward and contents himself just to feel the warmth of Jango’s hand in his own. 

The walk to the Hall of Memories is a slow one, both to allow the spectators a chance to take part in the celebrations and to accommodate a kinder pace for the participants, namely Obi-Wan. He’s used to wearing hideously heavy robes for state occasions, but this is by far the heaviest yet. In order to support the weight of the ruby-encrusted headdress he’s wearing, a large collar and accompanying shoulder piece attach to the base of the headdress and the top of his corset, making for a very restrictive, extremely uncomfortable outfit. As the Stewjoni believe that all beauty is art, and all art requires discomfort - as their poetry can often attest - the less comfortable a person is in their clothing, the greater attuned they are to their higher purpose. As Obi-Wan’s entire purpose in life is to secure an alliance that will ensure the protection and longevity of their planet, it’s fitting that the day he accomplishes this is the day he genuinely wonders if his clothes will kill him.   
Still, Jango’s hands are warm and thrillingly rough, and he hold’s Obi-Wan’s with the kind of care you might show finely spun sugar. He holds his arm at a right angle, letting Obi-Wan rest his own arm atop it. In half an hour, he’s not lowered it once, nor has he faltered or pushed for a faster pace. His eyes dart warily across the crowds and it’s clear that the whole process is making him deeply uncomfortable, but he is steadfast and unwavering in his duty and adherence to the traditions of Obi-Wan’s people. 

When they arrive on Mandalore, they will have a second ceremony, one befitting the traditions of Jango’s people. Obi-Wan vows to endure it with the same gracious spirit, no matter how uncivilized the rumours surrounding Mandalorian weddings are. 

“Question,” Jango says suddenly, his lips barely moving. Obi-Wan has to strain to hear him over the sound of the crowds. “How the kriff are you gonna plant a tree dressed like that?”

Obi-Wan’s lip twitches. “With some difficulty, I imagine.”

“I mean, I’ll help,” Jango says, facing forward and looking at Obi-Wan out of the corner of his eye, “but what’d happen if we were both dressed up?”

“You’ve met my brother,” Obi-Wan says, happily recalling the resounding clusterfuck that was Kai-Van’s wedding some years earlier. “He was dressed as I am now, and so was his _grādh_. It took them three hours. Even father started to lose his temper.”

The corners of Jango’s lips curl up. “So this is the traditional Stewjoni get up then?” 

Obi-Wan can’t physically nod his head. “Yes.”

Jango doesn’t say anything for another ten minutes. By this point, the Hall of Memories is finally visible in the distance. 

“ _Grādh_ … that’s Stewjoni for _riduur_ , yes?”

“Similar,” Obi-Wan agrees. “Stewjoni is a genderless language, much like Mando’a. _Grādh_ simply means someone you are pledged to for life. We are _ven’riduur_ in your tongue - future spouses. In Stewjoni, we are simply _Grādh_ and have been since our fathers ratified the agreement of an alliance.”

“Even though we’re not yet married?”

“That’s just datawork,” Obi-Wan says, desperately missing the ability to shrug. 

“This is a lot of noise for datawork,” Jango says dryly. 

“Never let it be said we miss a chance to throw outlandish parties.”

Jango’s laugh is low and quiet, but it sinks into Obi-Wan’s chest and warms him. His _Grādh_ doesn’t look to be a man who laughs or smiles much, and it will be up to Obi-Wan to change that. This is promising. 

Another few minutes pass in silence. Then Jango clears his throat. “About tonight. The, er, last bit of the ceremony.”

“The consummation,” Obi-Wan says more directly. He’s surprised Jango is approaching the subject, but he listens carefully. 

“Yeah. That. You’re not gonna be wearing all that, are you?” He finally turns his head just a fraction towards Obi-Wan and his eyes are wide with worry as they look him up and down. 

A surprised bark of laughter escapes Obi-Wan’s chest and temporarily robs him of his breath. He has to pause and brace a hand against the front of the corset, so Jango steps closer. 

“You okay?” 

“Yes,” Obi-Wan wheezes, “yes, I’m sorry. You caught me off guard.” He imagines trying to do anything intimate in the clothes he is wearings and can’t think of a single thing less appealing. “No, I will change beforehand.”

Jango swears under his breath. “Good! That’s…that’s good. I wouldn’t know where to even start with the -“ he flaps his spare hand in an awkward gesture, his cheeks endearingly red, “-stuff.” By stuff, Obi-Wan is assuming he means fastenings. That’s fair. Mandalorian armor looks eminently practical. 

“I will endeavor to make things as simple for you as possible,” Obi-Wan promises. 

  
There’s an intense kind of scrutiny to Jango’s gaze. He’s careful when taking Obi-Wan’s hand again and sets a slower pace as they resume the final stretch of their long walk together. He watches the parade - the world - with an expression that betrays his mistrust, then hides it all away behind a bland, polite little smile. 

He's a mystery to Obi-Wan, even after so many years. 

A mystery Obi-Wan has every intention of solving. 

* * *

  
For people who insist that their marriage ceremonies end in sex, their traditional wedding outfits seem designed to keep everyone at a physical distance. 

That’s not to say that Obi-Wan’s arrival hasn’t struck Jango around the head with the stupid stick, because it absolutely has, but he can still appreciate the irony. 

  
Stewjoni weddings seem to inspire a lot of sunset colors - yellows and oranges and reds, offset by the odd splash of vibrant pink and purple. It’s all very bright and cheerful, which is probably why Obi-Wan’s outfit stands out the way it does. 

He’s not wearing white like they do on Naboo, or red like they wear on Cato Namibia, but something between the two. The long gown is a strange shade, like a splash of blood blended with thick cream. It’s soft, and more than a little unnerving, balanced by shoulder plates that extend far past his shoulders and a large headdress the shape of a starburst. Both are heavily encrusted with small slivers of silver and gold gemstones shaped into stars, and a number of rubies the size of Jango’s palm. 

  
As instructed, he holds Obi-Wan’s hand in his own. Unlike the previous robes Obi-Wan wore, these ones have gossamer-thin sleeves that bunch around his wrists and are decorated by even more gems. 

Jango could probably arm half of Sundari for the cost of the headdress alone. 

  
Holding Obi-Wan’s hand is less uncomfortable than he’s imagined. It’s not much fun keeping his arm at a right angle for as long as he is, but even with the added weight of Obi-Wan’s arm against his, it’s nothing compared to the drills he’s run since childhood. Besides, he kinda likes the feel of skin against his own. He’s not short of physical contact in his life - Myles sees to that - but he can’t actually recall the last time he touched another person without gloves or armor forming a barrier between their skin. He’s surprised by how cool Obi-Wan’s hands are. How cool, and how surprisingly rough. The painted skin on the back of his hands and knuckles is silken and smooth, but the undersides of his fingers have callouses and what feel like a number of long healed burns. Not the hands of a spoiled little princeling. Closer to Jango’s own. While the gloves he wears in armor usually protect him, those long years after Galidraan have left plenty of scars. He wonders what Obi-Wan will make of them. 

When they finally reach the tall steps leading up to the Hall of Memories, Jango carefully navigates the dangerous edges of Obi-Wan’s outfit to move a little closer and help him manage the stairs with so many long, heavy layers. He catches the faintest hint of a smile on the corner of his _riduur’s_ crimson lips and tries not to feel giddy. 

If he kisses Obi-Wan - and he imagines he will tonight - will that blood-red paint smear? Will his lips taste of the red berries the color reminds him of? 

  
At the top of the stairs, the Royal Family await, along with the Prime Minister and an elderly woman whose frail form is almost swallowed whole by the size of her headdress. 

None of the Stewjoni bow the way Mandalorians bow. They might incline their heads in a small gesture of respect, but otherwise, they all sink low into a well-balanced squat, their backs ramrod straight and the weight of their heavy clothes barely shifting with the careful movement. 

Obi-Wan pulls his hand from Jango’s and sinks down. From this angle, Jango can see the tiny crystal drops that sparkle, dew-like, from his frosted white eyelashes. 

  
Jango inclines his head to his _riduur’s_ family, but he doesn’t bow. There's not a being alive he will take a knee for. 

That's two phases down. 

And then come the trees. 

Standing in neat rows before the doors to the Hall of Memories are hundreds of small trees. Some are mere buds poking green sprouts from the earth, while others have thick trunks that have twisted in time. None of them are taller than Jango’s hip, but he can still tell that there are some old trees among the rows. 

Waiting for them at the end of the longest row are thirteen small disks spaced evenly apart. 

Planting them is a task they are to undertake together. Taking pity on his _riduur_ , Jango kneels down on the sandy path beside the row and holds his hand up to Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan accepts it with a smile and sinks gracefully down to kneel beside him. 

“I’ll dig,” Jango says, eying the soil and selecting a small hand trowel from the few tools left out for them. “You plant.”

Obi-Wan picks up the first disk and runs his fingers over the top. Inside, a single seed floats on a clear, gelatinous bed. “As you wish.” 

Considering the size of the other trees, Jango is pretty sure than the seed won’t need to be planted too deep. He makes a small pit that’s slightly wider than the disk, then leans back against his heels as Obi-Wan places the seed carefully in the earth. 

The tight cuffs around his sleeves make a lot more sense as Jango watches the soil brush against his hands as he presses the seed down. When he starts to cover it with the displaced soil, Jango finds himself frowning, not wanting him to dirty the delicate lines of crimson that decorate his fingers.

“I can-“ he starts, but Obi-Wan has already finished. Fine. Jango’s getting the next one. 

He stands, once again holds his hand out, this time to help Obi-Wan rise, and they move to the next spot. 

It’s not a fast process, but Jango being able to move without fear of falling from the top-heavy weight of his clothing helps. He does the work that requires the most dexterity, and he helps his _riduur_ kneel and rise each time. 

When they are finally done and both standing upright again, Obi-Wan reaches up and brushes his thumb over Jango’s cheek to dislodge a small petal. Standing this close, Jango has to raise his chin a little to look Obi-Wan in the eye and he swears he can count the small crystals that line them. 

All of this, all the fuss and extravagance of the Stewjoni, of Obi-Wan himself, it’s not what Jango has ever considered attractive. He’s a practical man, with practical ambitions and desires, but he thinks he understands the folk stories sung around campfires a little better now. People like Obi-Wan just have to hold your gaze, and you’re ensnared. His _riduur_ is beautiful, and Jango is foolish enough to want him. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Obi-Wan asks him, drawing his hand away from Jango’s face and taking the warmth of the sun with him.

Jango’s throat is stubbornly refusing to allow the words he wants to speak to rise from his chest. He shakes his head and moves to Obi-Wan’s side, taking his hand the way he did on the long walk here. He does it because it’s expected. And because he wants to. 

As they are led inside the Hall of Memories, Jango catches a glimpse of Myles and the enormous grin he flashes across a room full of diplomats and politicians. The chances of his friend finding someone here to share his bed tonight is about as high as Jango making it though the feast without further imagining the taste of Obi-Wan’s lips against his own. 

The long corridor the are being led down suddenly opens up into a huge chamber lined with towering statues. They stand taller than ten men and each has the slender, blossom tipped branches of Stewjon’s national tree winding up from their bases to the tops of their heads. The statues closest to Jango are barely recognisable as Stewjoni. On either side of the chamber, two of them hold shining silver spears in the air. Their smooth white marble bodies are painted with blue sigils and patterns and only narrow drapes of carefully carved fabric preserve their modesty. The two statues next to them are similarly dressed, though they hold bowls filled with flames instead of spears. 

Through thirteen pairs of statues, Jango sees the history of Stewjon unfold, each one gaining more in the way of clothing, while weapons and fire are exchanged first for fruit, then several kinds of precious gems, until finally the two at the far end stand carved in the same robes Obi-Wan is wearing now, their hands held out to let the branches of the trees climbing them twist upwards towards a crystal roof high above.

Jango takes each one in as they pass, noting the way their expressions twist from rage and fire to blank serenity. 

The old woman with her crippling headdress awaits them, standing before an altar between the two furthest statues. 

This is it, then. No going back now. Whether legally binding on Mandalore or not, once this is done, Obi-Wan will be tied to him and him to Obi-Wan. 

As Jango turns to face his _riduur_ , he can’t help but wonder what his calm, perfectly painted face might look like twisted in anger like the first statues. 

He might be beautiful, but if there's no fire beneath that lovely face Jango wonders how long his desire will burn, and what will become of them when it dies out.


	5. Chapter 5

After so much fuss and posturing, the ceremony itself is almost anticlimactic. 

There’s no dramatic recital of vows or flowery speeches, just a long monologue from the old woman that lasts upwards of an hour, followed by the signing of the contract that’s previously been negotiated. That’s it. Jango is almost zoning out by the time it’s done, denied both the sight of Obi-Wan stood beside him, and a fluent understanding of anything that’s being said. The room is warm and smells heavily of the scented blossoms, and the low, even sound of the woman’s voice starts to lull him into a surreal state of relaxation. 

Through it all, Obi-Wan’s hand remains in his. 

By the time they are finally done Jango’s eyelids are heavy and the sudden ring of trumpets startles him so sharply he almost pulls his _riduur_ off his feet. Obi-Wan braces him with a surprisingly strong grip and turns as gracefully as he can to look at him. “They’re to signify the end of the ceremony and the call to the feast,” he says quietly. He rubs his thumb soothingly over Jango’s knuckles, and it’s a lot easier to stare in bewilderment at that small touch than it is to admit his lapse in concentration. 

A furious flush blooms under the white paint on his face and he lets Jango's hand fall out of his own. 

Jango _could_ take it again - he misses the weight of it in his own - but they're already moving. 

The feast is back at the Palace. Fortunately, there's transport to shorten the journey this time, and after twenty minutes of trying to work up the nerve to just take his _riduur's_ damned hand again, Jango finds himself seated in the Palace's great hall, side by side with Obi-Wan at the head of a table that stretches further than he can see.

As a boy, Jango often found it difficult to eat when nervous or on edge. As a man, he knows well enough to eat when the opportunity presents itself, and on Mandalore that’s twice a day. In the field, they carry ration packs full of small but nutrient-dense foods that are easy to eat on the go, but otherwise they frequently prefer one hearty meal to break their fast in a morning and another, lighter meal in the evening. He’s not a bad cook himself and can recreate many of his _buir's_ recipes. Promising to make _Tiingilar_ is the fastest way to get Myles to agree to anything and he’ll always demand seconds, even when his eyes are streaming and sweat is pouring from his brow. 

By comparison, Stewjoni food is incredibly bland. They eat smaller meals with greater frequency, and while there is an abundance of food laid out for the feast, its mostly fruits, nuts, thin slivers of smoked meats and an assortment of mild cheeses. The wine is extremely sweet and full of bubbles, served in delicate little glasses with long fluted rims. Jango stares at his for a number of minutes before the first toast is called, then he carefully observes the way Obi-Wan places the flute against his lips and uses it as a straw. 

The more he observes his _riduur_ , the more Jango realizes that everything about the feast has been designed to be as easy to consume as possible. The small, bite-sized portions are easily popped into the mouth, chewed and carefully swallowed without putting any strain on the tight collar or headpiece. The glasses can be sipped from without having to tip your head, and the light, simple food limits the discomfort that would surely come with eating a heavy meal while wearing a corset. 

Obi-Wan pops a green berry into his mouth and catches Jango staring. 

“I imagine you’re used to a little more flavor,” he chuckles. 

“I think Mandalorian food might kill you,” he says flatly. He can speak to the cooks in Sundari and see to it that they don’t immediately start sending Obi-Wan anything too hot, but there’s very little they eat that isn’t at least twice as intense as anything being served here. 

“It can’t be that bad,” Obi-Wan says, selecting another small square of cheese. He seems to like that one. Jango tries it and thinks it tastes of salt and little else. 

“Breakfast makes Myles cry,” he warns, “and it once took him three weeks to get a broken elbow fixed because it was ‘just a bruise’. “ 

There’s a soft brown fruit with thick skin and hundreds of tiny, crunchy seeds inside that’s not totally nauseating, so Jango takes another from the towering platter in front of them and sets it on his plate. The only cutlery served are sharp little silver knives, which he uses to cut through the skin. 

Obi-Wan blinks at him, the crystals in his eyelashes sending tiny refractions of light across his cheeks. “Oh dear.”

“I think the only thing we grow that isn’t hot is _bas neral_.” It’s an exaggeration, but not much of one, though there’s no way Jango is going to let his _riduur_ live on a diet of coarse grain. They’ll just have to start with some of the milder spices and work their way up. _Uj’alayi_ , maybe. That’s sweet enough to temper the heat, and Jango can make it himself in very little time. 

Obi-Wan makes a small, noncommittal sound and pops another berry into his mouth. 

Jango briefly - very briefly - reminds himself that anything as sticky as _Uj’alayi_ will wreak havoc on both Obi-Wan’s clothing and his paint, and it will be much easier if he just lets Jango feed him by hand. 

He gives himself a stern shake. 

Jango’s never had any expectation of sex from Obi-Wan, and beyond a few youthful daydreams pre-Galidraan, he’s spent very little time thinking about his _riduur_ as anything other than a means to an end, a political arrangement for the future prosperity of his people. If Obi-Wan wants sex, fine. If he doesn’t, also fine. If he wants sex but doesn’t want it with Jango… well, it’ll bruise his ego no doubt, but so long as he’s discreet about it, again, ultimately fine. It’s dishonorable to presume anything, and equally so to entertain fantasies of someone who has no desire to be thought of in such a way. 

He’s been prepared to not really think much about it. 

Only now it’s a guarantee. A contractual guarantee, no less. And Jango can’t _stop_ thinking about it. Which is all made worse by the fact that Obi-Wan seems to be entertaining similar thoughts. His eyes stray to Jango’s lips far too frequently for it to mean nothing. His laugh was genuine and free from cruelty when Jango asked about his clothing for the evening, and he’s just…

Jango desperately hopes he’s not projecting. 

What will Obi-Wan wear tonight? 

Kriff, what will Jango?

The sleeves of Obi-Wan’s gown are so fine that Jango can see the shape of his arms through them, his pale skin, and the delicate paint that doesn’t stop at his hands. Is he going to turn up tonight dressed like those first statues, painted from head to toe and barely covering his modesty, or will he be more demure, hiding his skin away from sight like so many Stewjoni outfits seem designed to do? What will the fabric feel like under his hands? What will _Obi-Wan_ feel like? 

He looks so soft and smooth. What sounds will he make when Jango kisses him? What -

Enough. What will be will be. Jango will take his direction from his _riduur_. He will touch what he is invited to touch and nothing more. Perhaps one day in their future, when they know each other better, Jango will be allowed to explore Obi-Wan in the way he desires to, but tonight he will be strong and take no liberties. 

Obi-Wan pushes his plate away and immediately there is an attendant pulling back his chair and offering him a hand to rise. Jango follows quickly, as do the rest of the guests. 

“Come,” Obi-Wan says with a smile. “It is time to go socialize.”

“With people?” Jango blurts, painfully aware just how many guests there are. 

“You can hide under the table if you like?”

“Is that a legitimate option or are you just kriffing with me?”

Obi-Wan blinks at him with guileless eyes. “I would never!” he says, pressing a hand delicately over his heart. 

That’s a yes then.

* * *

  
The reception lasts for another three hours. There’s dancing and music, polite speeches from his father and the Prime Minister, and even Kai-Van manages to say something diplomatic. Obi-Wan sticks close to Jango for the first hour, but inevitably they are separated as they are pulled off to speak to one dignitary or another. The last Obi-Wan sees of his _Grādh_ , Jango has been rescued by his General and is nodding politely to whatever ridiculousness Kai-Van is telling him. 

Taking a moment to catch some fresh air, he slips as quietly as he can out onto the veranda and allows the sweet-scented evening air to soothe him. The many gardens surrounding the Palace have been his domain for some years now, ever since his family decided what to do with him. For a time they had entertained the idea of marrying him off to Pre Vizsla in exchange for the same arrangement Stewjon had negotiated for with Jaster Mereel. Vizsla had shown no interest, killing any chance of Obi-Wan being a useful bargaining tool. Obi-Wan has landed in a role not too far removed from the one assigned to him by the Jedi. He’s not a farmer, but he is the Royal Patron of every farmer in the system. 

The Force does seem to work in mysterious ways. 

And speaking of mysterious…

“You do have an invitation,” he says, resting his hands on the veranda railings and taking some of the weight off his shoulders. “There’s no need to skulk around.”

“I don’t believe it wise to be seen here.” Jedi Master Dooku steps up to the railing beside him, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. He’s exchanged the humble robes of a Jedi for something more suitable at a royal wedding, and his aristocratic bearing means he fits in easily with the company. 

“I didn’t expect you to come,” Obi-Wan admits, still not sure what irrational urge overtook him when he sent the invitations. 

“As if I would miss the opportunity to see you one final time, dear boy.” Dooku rests his hand over Obi-Wan’s on the railing and pats it awkwardly. He’s not a physically affectionate man, but then neither is Obi-Wan. The brush of the Jedi Master’s warm presence against his mind is far more of a comfort. 

“You make it sound like I’ll never see you again.”

“I certainly won’t be welcome on Mandalore,” Dooku says with a heavy sigh. “Please know that I did everything within my power to prevent this day from happening.”

Startled, Obi-Wan turns stiffly to face him. “Why would you do that?”

Dooku takes hold of his arms by the elbows and grips him firmly. There’s a pulse of unease, almost fear, that meanders through his presence in the Force. A dark, sickly smear against his otherwise pristine and glowing presence. 

“Jango Fett is dangerous,” Dooku warns. 

Obi-Wan has to laugh. “He’s a Mandalorian. I’d say that comes with the territory.”

Dooku scowls and shakes his head. “He is a danger to _you_. If he were ever to find out who you are - _what_ you are-“

“What I’m not,” Obi-Wan cuts him off firmly. “And haven’t been for many years.”

“ _He will not care_. Understand, Obi-Wan, that he killed six armed Jedi - six fully trained, experienced warriors - with his bare hands. He was a vicious monster before, but war has turned him rabid.” He looks warily over Obi-Wan’s shoulder, back towards the reception. “There are rumors. No Jedi who crosses his path has been seen or heard from again. I implore you: do not trust him, do not let your guard down, and above all else, do not reveal yourself to him. I would not see you harmed.” 

He raises a grandfatherly hand to Obi-Wan’s cheek, begging with his eyes. 

“I will heed your words,” Obi-Wan promises, “but I truly fear no harm from him.” Jango’s emotions are complex and weighted, and there is no doubt a darkness in him that only ever comes from embracing violence, but there is so much more. Obi-Wan feels his earnestness, his compassion and his boundless love for his people. No one with that much love in their heart can truly be a monster as Dooku describes. 

Dooku nods gratefully and lowers his hands. 

Suddenly feeling awkward with him in a way he hasn’t since their first meeting, Obi-Wan fights the childish urge to shuffle his feet. “Do you have news of Anakin?” He asks. “Shmi would be overjoyed at an update.”

Dooku takes a composed step back. “The child progresses well. He is rambunctious and far too reckless-“

“He’s nine,” Obi-Wan points out wryly. 

Dooku wrinkles his nose in aristocratic disdain. “So he is. The Council believe he will be ready to be taken as a Padawan in a year or so.”

Obi-Wan is struck by a bizarre and unwelcome clash of pride and jealousy, both of which he tries to quickly release into the Force. “Will you take him as your apprentice?”

“I had thought to retire from running after small children,” Dooku says, “but he attracts attention from many unqualified Masters. I at least can provide a firm hand.” 

That makes Obi-Wan laugh. “You say that, but I have only ever known you to be as soft as mula spread.” Oh, he can see how Dooku has earned his reputation as an aloof disciplinarian, but no matter how stern he’s always been unfailingly kind to Obi-Wan. 

“You, child, have never been in need of a firmer hand. Quite the opposite.” A shadow of regret crosses his refined features. “Ah, but I have kept you from the celebrations long enough. I only wished to see you before you left.”

“And warn me,” Obi-Wan points out, not forgetting his words. 

Dooku takes his hands and bows deeply. “If I hear but one rumor of cruelty towards you, the Council’s disapproval will not stop me from coming to your aid.”

Balancing carefully, Obi-Wan rises on his tiptoes and presses an affectionate kiss to Dooku’s cheek. “I can only hope Jango has someone equally as dedicated to his happiness, for then we shall both be blessed. May the Force be with you, Master Dooku.”

“May the Force be with you, my prince.”

Dooku takes a step back, melting easily into the darkness and leaving Obi-Wan alone on the veranda once more. 

He allows himself a moment to dwell on Dooku’s warning. 

There’s little he can do if the rumors are true. They are married now, or will be within hours, and to back ou before the final ceremony is complete would be a dishonor to both their planets. Rumors, as Dooku called them, are not fact, and it would not be fair of Obi-Wan to hold Jango’s behavior on the battlefield against him, especially in the tragic circumstances of Galidraan. 

No, all Obi-Wan can do is cautiously observe, and if it comes to light that Jango is murdering Jedi, then he’ll…

He’ll worry about it then. What good can it do either of them to focus on a future that is still so unclear?

As he starts to make his way back to the feast, he’s met by Shmi and Oné. They bow deeply. It’s time. 

Across the room, he catches Jango’s gaze and can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine. There’s fear there, yes, but fear tempered by anticipation. Ten years he has been preparing for this, and now it is here he can only hope and pray that he is satisfactory. 

If not, there might be more than an alliance at stake.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note! We are now diving right on into the smuttier side of this fic! I will warn you that you're possibly going to get a bit of emotional whiplash at the end though :D
> 
> The jangobi discord continue to be responsible for 99% of this fic and 100% of the fashion choices :D

“So I know why I’m nervous,” Jango says, glancing up at a pacing Myles over the neck of his flask. “What’s your excuse?”

Myles has the same look on his face that’s only ever seen before a battle, and while Jango does feel like he’s about to walk into a proverbial firefight, there’s no reason for Myles to be so serious. Not after the amount of wine he’s drunk. 

Myles stops pacing and snatches the flask from Jango’s hand. “No more alcohol for you,” he announces, necking the remains before Jango can protest. When he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You don’t find this all kinda…weird?” He flaps an arm, indicating the gilded antechamber they have been told to wait in. Jango has been invited to bring as many _fianai_ to witness the final portion of the ceremony, but since he has less than zero desire for his sex life to be an actual topic of discussion in parliament, he’s kept the number of his companions simply to one. 

“I found it weird yesterday!” Jango protests. “You were the one telling me to just get things over with!”

“That was before we talked to your _riduur’s_ lunatic brother!”

Yeah, that'd been something. And Jango thinks _he’s_ awkward in conversations with strangers. 

“You know I don’t actually care that Obi-Wan isn’t a virgin,” Jango repeats the same thing he said to the Crown Prince, this time with more of a scowl than he’d shown in public. “Kriff, at least one of us will have a clue what to do.”

“Right,” Myles nods furiously. “And that’s because you’re not a psychopath. Who the kriff talks about their brother like that?” 

Kai-Van’s attempt at expressing his admiration for Jango’s ‘understanding of the situation’ might be up there with one of the most uncomfortable conversations Jango has ever been part of, but he figures it’s just another archaic tradition of Stewjoni society. If anything, he’s more concerned with the man Obi-Wan had embraced in the veranda after the feast. Jango had been too far away to get a look at his face, but he’s circling back to the worry that Obi-Wan is happily involved with someone else, and that Jango is about to take that from him. 

He sighs heavily. “I don’t get it - any of this - but it’s important to them, and I respect that. Once tonight is over, that’ll be the end of it. I think Obi-Wan is gonna have a far harder time adapting to life with the _Mando’ade_. The least I can do is give him this.”

“I’ve already spoken to the _al’verde_ ,” Myles admits. “Your _riduur_ won’t be the only Stewjoni coming to live on Sundari in the next few months. We’ll do what we can to make the transition painless, but these people carry themselves like prey.”

Jango’s jaw sets angrily. “I will take a hand raised to any Stewjoni on Mandalore as an act of treason and I will physically remove those hands before mounting their heads on a kriffing spike.” 

“I’m thinking we can probably find a middle ground between leaving our guests vulnerable and mass decapitation,” Myles muses, “but yes, those were the sentiments I passed on.”

Jango grunts. “Good.”

They both fall silent as the door to the chamber opens and a beautiful woman in robes of sunset-colored silk steps inside and curtseys low. “My lords, if you would please follow me?”

Jango stands and nods, looking her up and down as he approaches. “You are Lady Shmi? The Prince’s Handmaiden?” He’s only caught glimpses of her before, but always at Obi-Wan’s side. 

“Yes, my lord,” Shmi says, bobbing gracefully again. “I will be accompanying His Highness to Sundari.”

Shmi, Jango thinks, probably holds Obi-Wan’s confidence in a way no one else can match. She will either be a valuable ally or a total nightmare. Desperate to start off on the right foot, Jango nods his head respectfully. “I am glad to meet you, my Lady. I am Jango, and this is my _Alor’aan_ Myles.”

Myles says nothing and just waves both his hands. It’s reassuring to know that Jango's not the only one reduced to stupidity when in the presence of a pretty face. 

Shmi smiles, her eyes bright with amusement. “His Highness awaits, Lord Fett.”

Kriff. 

Myles smacks him roughly on the shoulder. “Go get ‘em!” 

Fond exasperation dulls the edges of his nerves long enough for him to follow Shmi into the main chamber, at which point he sees the literal _rows_ of people sitting quietly behind a golden barrier and damn near freezes on the spot. 

Myles swears quietly behind him. “I’ll show you to your seat, my lord,” Shmi says, quietly drawing Myles away, leaving Jango on the other side of the knee-high barrier. 

What kind of kriffing bedroom has a spectator’s gallery? Jango spots the Prime Minister seated on the King’s left and Kai-Van on his right. King Ochi-Ta inclines his head in unspoken permission and Jango has to fight the very real urge to giggle in horrified hysteria. 

“Here,” Shmi returns to Jango’s side of the barrier and hands him a soft, folded robe before directing him to an ornate privacy screen set to one side of the largest bed Jango has ever seen. She curtseys again, and leaves to take her own seat. She, like the figure sat beside her, both lower their gaze to their laps. 

Jango digs his fingers into the fabric and steadies himself. This will be embarrassing, yes, but hardly the worst thing he’s ever endured. 

Stepping behind the privacy screen, he makes short work of his clothes, removing and folding each item before pulling the robe over his head. It’s indulgently soft and blessedly falls all the way down to his ankles. It’s also free from anything remotely resembling the usual decadence of Stewjoni clothing. It’s plain and simple and Jango wonders if that’s standard, or if someone has made a specific request for him. 

When he steps back out from around the screen, he’s no longer alone behind the barrier. 

For the first time, Jango gets a look at him without a headdress and Obi-Wan’s hair, though darker near the crown of his head, hangs in flame red waves to brush the hem of his gown. It’s woven through with glittering strands of the same delicate gold chains that wink in the light from his hands and ankles and frames the precious blue gems that hang from the cuffs on his ears. It’s enough to stop Jango’s breath in his chest even before he gets to the gown he’s wearing. 

If the sleeves he wore earlier were fine and semi-transparent, the fabric that makes up the bulk of this outfit is so delicately woven it's all but invisible. Embroidered birds of pink and blue and lilac take flight across his body, carefully positioned to disguise the most intimate parts of his anatomy. An invisible neckline gives way to long fringes of silky looking lilac tassels at his shoulders, hips and thighs. Jango can see his thighs through the fabric, and the muscles of his stomach. He can see the sharp cut of Obi-Wan’s collarbones and the sparkly gem pierced in his navel, and just a shift in a position will reveal _everything_ else. 

He’s beautiful in the way something rare and exquisitely cared for can be, but compared to his previous outfits, this one is obscene.

Jango finds himself drawing closer without conscious thought and places his own body between Obi-Wan and their spectators. 

He’s not a jealous man, but he thinks he understands the significance of Obi-Wan coming to him still clothed but almost entirely naked, and a small, possessive part of his soul snarls at the notion of anyone sharing in this intimacy. 

Closing the space between them, Jango tries to think of the right words to say. Not that Obi-Wan is beautiful, or that Jango’s heart skips every other beat in his presence. That’s too much, and not for an audience. 

Instead, he settles on the truth. 

“Know that I’m willing,” Jango says, raising tentative hands to rest lightly on the fine silken tassel sleeves Obi-Wan’s nightgown. Willing, and rapidly becoming more eager by the second. “But I’ve no idea what I’m doing. You’ll have to take the lead.” 

Obi-Wan’s expression shifts from mildly coy to curious, then he curls his fingers over Jango’s wrists and rubs his thumbs over the back of his knuckles. 

“I’ll take care of you,” he promises. 

Jango doesn’t need anyone to take care of him. Just to direct...all this. He starts to say so, until Obi-Wan lifts a delicately painted finger to his lips and smiles around a hush for silence. 

Right. Okay. Yeah, he can do that. 

Obi-Wan’s fingers entwine with his own. He’s led towards the bed and gently pushed down until he’s sitting comforting on the edge of the mattress. He’s entranced, caught between the skin that flashes enticingly from beneath the edges of Obi-Wan’s sleeves and the flash of red hair that brushes against his throat. Whatever Obi-Wan wants, whatever he demands, Jango will give it to him with reverent hands. 

Then Obi-Wan lowers himself gracefully to the ground, slides his palms slowly up Jango’s thighs and settles himself comfortably between his legs. 

The hands on his thighs slide lower, teasingly wandering down his legs until they can slip under the hem of his long robe. When they start their ascent again, it’s flesh against flesh. Obi-Wan slowly pushes the fabric up past his knees, then stops to press light, delicate kisses to the inside of each one. Jango’s toes curl at the brush of thick, silken hair against his skin. Falling in such heavy waves, it covers his whole back, denying Jango the chance to see if the reverse of his gown is equally as suggestive as the front is. He aches with the urge to sink his hands into copper-flame locks and instead clenches his hands into fists at his side. 

“You understand what is necessary?” Obi-Wan whispers, his hands now on Jango’s thighs, cool and strong. Jango is pretty sure sex is necessary. He nods sharply. “Do you have any preferences?”

“I- no - no.” Barely one touch, and Jango is willing to give him anything he desires. Obi-Wan’s blue eyes, lined with black and burning even brighter than his hair, look up at him from his place between Jango’s legs and even someone inexperienced in the ways of lust can draw a number of ideas from that sight alone. “Just… kriff… get on with it.” He’s not delicate flower in need of handholding. 

Obi-Wan almost looks offended, but then shrugs and pushes Jango’s robe up past his waist. Freed from the confines of the robe, Jango’s dick rapidly starts to harden as Obi-Wan wraps his hand around the shaft and his lips around the head. Jango almost bolts off the bed and clenches his fists to stop himself from grabbing Obi-Wan’s long hair. 

No handholding it is… kriffing hells… 

He feels full and sensitive, soon completely hard from the combination of Obi-Wan’s hands and mouth. He’s eager to return the favor - to feel Obi-Wan’s length in his hand, to taste him, to watch him gasp and moan - but Obi-Wan isn’t yet done with him. 

He nudges Jango’s legs wider and encourages him to shuffle closer to the edge of the mattress. Taking the hands that have been clenched so tightly that they ache, he kisses the back of each one, then raises them to the sides of his head. It’s explicit encouragement to finally slide his fingers into Obi-Wan’s hair. As he does so, Obi-Wan leans back in, lets his own hands drop to rest peacefully on his thighs, and takes Jango back into his mouth. This time, he doesn’t stop at just the head. 

“Kriff!” Jango hisses, his hands tightening instinctively in Obi-Wan’s hair. “Oh - kriff!” He tries not to move - tries to be considerate and careful - but Obi-Wan takes more and more of him, his pretty, painted mouth stretching obscenely around Jango’s length. Hands lightly touch his ankles, seeking balance and support and before Jango can even start to see through the sudden haze in his vision, Obi-Wan’s nose is brushing his crotch and he’s completely buried in the tight heat of his mouth. 

His one, drunken hand job with Isabet blinks out of existence as pleasure greater than anything he has ever experienced floods his body. His skin burns and his bones ache and it almost hurts to breathe, but all he has to do it meet Obi-Wan’s glossy, pleasure drunk eyes and see him so full of Jango. Obi-Wan rubs his thumb soothingly over Jango’s ankle, a small promise that everything is well, that Jango can have this and more. 

He unclenches his fists just enough to ensure he’s not hurting Obi-Wan, then takes another, careful hold. 

It’s a strange dichotomy. There are a lot of pearly white teeth barely millimetres from the most sensitive part of Jango’s anatomy, and yet he’s never felt more powerful or in control in his life. Obi-Wan is looking up at him with blazing eyes and breathing shallowly through his nose. Jango has complete control over how hard he is fucked, how much he can take and how frequently his mouth is plundered. And yet Obi-Wan can change the terms whenever he likes. The rest of the world and the other occupants in the room fade from thought. It is just the two of them, vulnerable and elated. 

Jango carefully eases himself from Obi-Wan’s mouth and shivers at the wet, choked little cough he makes the moment he’s able to breath uninhibited. 

“This what you want?” Jango says, his voice thick and rough. 

Obi-Wan swallows and runs his tongue over his bottom lip. Jango follows its path with his thumb and tries not to whimper when Obi-Wan sucks it into his mouth. 

This is - no. 

He has to check his enthusiasm, hauling Obi-Wan up off his knees and grinning at the startled blink of surprise the sudden change in position gets him. The silky fabric of his gown rubs teasingly against Jango’s dick as he arranges Obi-Wan on his lap, his thighs either side of Jango’s. 

It’s Jango’s turn to look up now, much of the world hidden by the thick curtain of Obi-Wan’s hair. “Let me kiss you,” he begs, suddenly hating that he’s not yet done so. “Please - please.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t make him beg for long. He wraps his hands around the back of Jango’s neck and kisses him with bruising strength. His wicked tongue brushes against Jango’s lips and he’s helpless to do anything but let Obi-Wan have his way. It’s all he can do to hang on for the ride, unsure where to put his hands as Obi-Wan grinds against him in slow, teasing circles. 

He doesn’t taste like berries, no matter how flushed his lips are. Just of mint and heat, and the soft scent of blossoms as his hair brushes Jango’s face. 

Daringly, Jango sets his hands on Obi-Wan’s waist. He can feel the hard muscles beneath the soft fabric and marvels at the stark difference between all that strength and the tight, almost unnatural narrow curve of his waist. He’s not wearing a corset now, but Jango can feel the effect of them.

Losing himself in their kiss, content to let Obi-Wan control it as he desires, Jango lets his hands wander. His thumbs brush the base of his ribs, slowly travelling up the lines of his chest until the tips of his fingers bump into something small and metal. Obi-Wan breaks their kiss, whining and writhing in Jango’s arms as Jango rubs his fingers in curious circles and finally realizes that Obi-Wan’s navel isn’t the only thing pierced. 

Light, tentative pinches with his fingers draws increasingly desperate sounds from Obi-Wan’s flushed and swollen lips. When Jango reaches up and catches the fine gold chain that hangs around his neck and vanishes below the fabric of his gown he actually growls, his eyes flashing desperate and wild as he shoves Jango roughly back on the bed. 

This… this is something Jango does know. In a way. He’s not usually hard and about to lose his mind, but wrestling is something he is very, very good at. Obi-Wan might be a lot stronger than he looks under all those pretty gowns, but he’s no fighter. 

Which explains why it’s easy for Jango to get an arm around that narrow waist and throw him down on the mattress beside him, but not how Obi-Wan, at a distinct disadvantage in both clothing and with his long hair, still somehow ends up on top of him. 

He leans back, his skin glistening through the fine fabric, and flashes Jango the kind of smile men die from. “Do you want me to submit to you, my Lord? To be soft and sweet, to let you choke me with your cock?” His voice is too low for anyone other than Jango to hear his words. A good thing, because Jango’s brain shorts out entirely, remembering how Obi-Wan had looked, his mouth stretched and full. 

Cool, slender fingers tighten around his wrists and pin them down on either side of his head. Obi-Wan leans in close, the world around them vanishing behind his hair. “Or would you rather I made you fight? You do like fighting, don’t you?”

Of course he does. It’s what he does best. The thought of wrestling with Obi-Wan - really wrestling with him - to see which of them is the stronger, which of them gets to dominate… he thinks he’ll win, but is suddenly just unsure enough for the whole thing to be unbearably thrilling. There’s no joy, no honor, in forcing the submission of one too weak to fight back, but there’s _nothing_ weak about the man above him. 

He’s silent for too long, too caught up in the idea, lost in the fantasy. Obi-Wan’s grip loosens and regret washes over his fair face. “Another time,” he whispers. “You can fight for your prize, but for now I did promise to take care of you.” He moves, working his way slow back until he’s between Jango’s legs again, not atop them. The loss of the shelter he and his hair provided means Jango is blinded by the sudden flare of the lights above them and before he can even recover, Obi-Wan is taking him back in his mouth. 

Jango could try and sit up, could put his hands in Obi-Wan’s hair again and pretend to be in control of the situation. There’s no point. He is entirely Obi-Wan’s, utterly powerless to resist and ready to die before trying to. 

After so much teasing, he’s so hard it’s starting to hurt, over sensitive to the tightness and heat of Obi-Wan’s mouth. The lights above his head flare out in a blinding whiteness as pleasure crashes over him and he has no chance to warn Obi-Wan before finding his release. 

He thinks that’s probably rude, but Obi-Wan doesn’t pull away. He keeps Jango in his mouth, working every last drop of his orgasm from him before finally sitting back. 

Jango’s come is smeared in the corner of his lips, and not a single drop of paint is smeared. 

Every tendays, he thinks, falling weakly back against the bed. That’s not going to be nearly enough time to recover. 

The lines of Obi-Wan’s gown strain around his own hard length and Jango might’ve had every bone in his body liquidized, but he’s desperate to return the favor and hear Obi-Wan cry out from pleasure. Those pleading little sounds he made when Jango pinched his nipples were not even close enough to satisfy. 

He pushes himself upright and tenses, reality crashing down on him as figures suddenly appear around the bed. Obi-Wan pulls Jango’s robe down, preserving his modesty from prying eyes. 

Myles’s earlier words rise in Jango’s memory as two Stewjoni officials converse quietly in their own language before one of them reaches over, puts his hands on Obi-Wan’s chin and angles his jaw around so they can see evidence of Jango’s release. 

The urge to tear their arms off rises in him in a violent, blood-red wave. How dare they? How _dare_ they touch his _riduur_? How dare they witness something they have no right to?

He’s forgotten that this is merely another of their esoteric rituals. This isn’t a private, passionate moment between him and Obi-Wan, but a very public spectacle. As promised, Obi-Wan has looked after him, and Jango has forgotten all about their watching eyes. 

“Very good, Lord Fett. I trust you are satisfied?” 

Jango scowls and lifts an unimpressed eyebrow, masking his discomfort with cool disdain. “I will be when you let us finish.”

“The ritual is finished, my lord,” the other official says. At the foot of the bed, Shmi is holding out a dark blue robe for Obi-Wan, who untangles himself from Jango and lets her swaddle him in fabric, even going so far as to pull a hood up over his hair. 

Obi-Wan bobs in a traditional Stewjoni courtesy of respect, the cloak hiding all evidence of his arousal. “ _Mand’alor_ ,” he says politely. 

And then he’s being escorted out of the room by Shmi and another attendant, both of them flanking him far closer than is strictly necessary. 

“Where are you taking him?” Jango demands. “This whole ritual is your idea!”

“It is done, Lord Fett,” Prince Kai-Van says from across the barrier. “Your marriage is consummated and I greet you as a brother.”

“We shall leave you to see to your needs at your own pace, my Lord,” the first official says. “A warm bath has been drawn, should you desire it, and there is no rush to leave.” He then bobs his knees, walking backwards with his companion until they reach the barrier. Within another sixty seconds, only Myles remains in the room with him, and he still has no idea how he’s gone from being overwhelmed with desire to almost cold with confusion in barely a heartbeat. 

He waits for Myles to make some kind of joke, but when minutes pass in silence he finally pushes himself from the bed. 

“Did that make sense to you?” He asks a little desperately. 

“Not a damn bit,” Myles says, his eyes wide. “You’re okay, right?”

Jango takes a moment to think. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I don’t think I remember how to use my legs, but I’m okay.”

Myles lets out a bark of laughter and something eases in Jango’s chest. “Yeah, he sucked your dick good!”

“That’s your _Alor’riduur_ you’re talking about,” Jango says, only a hint of warning in his voice. 

“And I am very respectful,” Myles nods earnestly. “Mildly freaked out by his people's weird sex ritual, but respectful enough to keep all my screaming internal.”

“Thanks,” Jango says dryly. “Do you think… do you think he’s okay?” It feels strange to be that intimate with someone and not be able to tell. 

“I don’t know,” Myles admits. “You could always ask him?”

“I don’t think I’ll be allowed to ask him tonight.” And isn’t that kriffing ridiculous? They’re married!

“So don’t ask permission,” Myles shrugs. 

Jango eyes his oldest friend carefully. “You know which room is his, don’t you?”

Myles beams at him. “What kind of _Alor’aan_ would I be if I didn’t?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, awkwardness done! Let the adorableness begin!

Obi-Wan hums softly as he runs a comb through his damp hair. 

He feels warm and tingly all over, hypersensitive after his bath and still with the lingering memory of Jango’s strong hands on his skin. 

The balmy evening air drifts in from the open balcony, drying his bare skin and soothing him with soft scents of _lalanvir_. He’s tired now and should try to find sleep, but instead, his mind spins with ridiculous fantasies of sneaking out of his room and into Jango’s. Of crawling into his bed and letting him finish what he so clearly wanted to. 

As far as the evening went, everything has been more of a success than he’s anticipated, but Force, it will be a long tendays before he’s welcome back in Jango’s arms. 

If not for the mortification of having Master Dooku know exactly what’s involved in Obi-Wan’s marriage contract, he’d be tempted to send a message to his old friend with a very pointed ‘I told you so’. Obi-Wan has grown used to people looking at him with desire, but Jango’s gaze had been almost adoring. For all Kai-Van’s gleeful proclamations of uncivilized Mandalorian appetites, Obi-Wan has always suspected otherwise. Now, he has validation. 

And a wealth of ideas to take into their next liaison. 

Now the deed is done, it’s remarkable how much more centered he is. It’s taken him years longer than expected, but he finally feels as though he’s on the right path. 

Setting his comb down on the vanity, Obi-Wan ducks to pick up one of the small fastenings that has fallen onto the floor. Shmi offered to stay and braid his hair for him after his bath, but it’s been a long day for her and Obi-Wan can manage this much unaided. 

He straightens his back and catches sight of his reflection in the mirror opposite. 

And the figure moving in the darkness at the edge of the balcony. 

He doesn’t hesitate. No one has permission to be here, which means whoever it is must be a threat. 

His lightsaber is packed away in the trunk under the bed and no use to him now. He’s not even kriffing dressed, but -

Grabbing hold of the large crystal vase that sits on the vanity, Obi-Wan hurls it across the room just as Jango steps out of the shadows, his hands raised unthreateningly.

“It’s ju -“ only his exceptional reflexes save him from a face-first collision with the heavy vase. He ducks, the vase hitting the column behind him, but still gets showered with shattered crystal, water, and bright yellow roses. 

“ _What are you doing_?” Obi-Wan yelps. He snatches the robe he’s left hanging over the back of his stool and hastily pulls the hood up over his head before remembering that he’s washed off all his paint. With a soft curse, he roots in the top draw of the vanity and hastily fastens a thin veil of pearl covered gossamer to the inside of the hood. It falls down over his face, providing him with almost as much protection as the paint does. 

Then he turns to Jango, who is standing comically still, dripping and covered in petals. 

“I’m sorry!” Jango says meekly, only moving when Obi-Wan hurries over to him. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry!”

“How did you get up here?” Obi-Wan demands, seeing no sign of the famous Mandalorian jet pack. 

“I climbed - wait, careful!” There are shards of broken crystal all over the floor. Obi-Wan hasn’t given any consideration to his bare feet and startles when he finds himself abruptly swept up in Jango’s arms and carried out of harms way. 

It’s…oh, he can feel the heat of Jango’s skin through their clothes and he now knows exactly how those strong hands feel as they sink into his hair and hold him tight. He squirms, determined not to embarrass himself, and blessedly finds himself carefully set down on the couch a moment later. “Oh. Thank you.” He feels a little shellshocked, sat on his couch with Jango kneeling beside him. 

A bead of pink water rolls down the side of Jango’s face. Did Obi-Wan hurt him? 

He reaches out to check, only for Jango to catch his fingers in one hand and raise the other to the side of his own head. “Ow?”

“Stop it,” Obi-Wan scolds. “Sit down and let me look at it.” He pulls Jango up onto the couch and goes to fetch a towel from his vanity. 

“Wait, am I bleeding?”

“That’s what I want to check. I could’ve killed you!” Thank Force his saber is under the bed. If he’d hurt his _grādh_ , even by accident…

Jango snorts and rolls his eyes. “I’ve had worse than a vase to the head, don’t worry.”

“That’s not particularly reassuring,” Obi-Wan grumbles. He sits back down and carefully angles Jango’s chin to one side, dabbing gently with the towel. It’s just a scratch at his hairline, shallow and short, but the sight of it burns his heart. 

“Oh.” There’s something of a scolded boy about Jango as he sits there pouting, obediently remaining still while Obi-Wan drabs at the side of his head. 

“You’ll live.”

“Glad to hear it. Sorry I scared you.”

“Is there a reason you decided to let yourself onto my balcony in the middle of the night?” 

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Jango says in earnest. This close, and without the heat of their earlier activities, he has the softest brown eyes. They dance with flickering candlelight, rich and warm, and if he can just stay here for a while and lose himself… but. No. No, he can’t…

“And that required a federal crime?”

“We’re married!” Jango protests. 

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agrees slowly. “And you signed a contract saying you’d not enter my rooms without permission!” It’s a rule put in place for Obi-Wan’s protection, and though Jango has run roughshod right over it, he can’t help feeling more exasperated than angry, and he’s certainly not afraid. 

“I did?” Jango blinks. “Kriff. I did. I’m sorry! I just needed to check on you.” He reaches out and takes Obi-Wan’s hands, holding them in his lap with infinite care. “They took you away so quickly. I was worried.”

“Worried?”

A pink flush spills across Jango’s cheeks. “We hadn't even finished. You didn’t come,” he says, saying each word with the careful concentration of someone who clearly doesn’t talk about sex much. 

Obi-Wan frowns. “I wasn’t supposed to?”

Jango stares at him. “You weren’t?”

“I asked you if you knew what was expected! You said yes! Then you said get on with it and-“

“Wait, wait,” Jango tightens his grip just enough to stop Obi-Wan pulling his hands free. “I’m missing something here. I didn't mean get on with _it_. I meant you didn't have to hold my hand and what, exactly, was expected?”

An uncomfortable coldness is starting to spread in Obi-Wan’s gut. “You do understand what the ceremony was for?”

“Honestly? No. I figured it was another symbolic thing.”

He has to remind himself that Jango hasn’t had the freedom of the last decade to learn anything about Stewjoni culture. Obi-Wan should’ve explained things better, checked that he really understood what was happening.

He sighs heavily. “It’s a compatibility test, that’s all. A ceremony to ensure that I can satisfy your needs.”

“Extremely satisfied,” Jango says seriously, “but what about _your_ needs?”

“I know full well how to satisfy my needs,” Obi-Wan says, risking a small smile. Jango doesn’t seem angry or particularly upset. If anything, his concern is sweet. “You realize all that was for my benefit, not yours?”

“It didn’t feel that way,” Jango pulls a face. "It felt... kinda like I was using you."

“Because I take most of my pleasure in providing it for my partner, as many Stewjoni do.” He runs his thumbs over the back of Jango’s hands. “Think of it like this - should we not prove compatible, should we find each other undesirable, or should your presence in my bed make me uncomfortable, expecting me to find release in those situations would be unfavorable. This way we can keep the whole thing relatively short and painless. Metaphorically speaking."

Jango’s eyebrows climb. “So it wasn’t… they weren’t being…”

“The whole process can be a little clinical,” Obi-Wan admits. 

“The witnesses…”

“For both our protection,” Obi-Wan explains gently. “Unpleasant, yes, but completely normal in Royal households. Be glad my father hasn’t insisted on a bodyguard being present for all future copulations.” 

Jango’s eyes widen comically and he shudders. Obi-Wan is overcome with the urge to kiss him again and has to force himself into a state of calmness. 

“Right. Right, no, no that's good,” Jango nods, more to himself than Obi-Wan. 

“I worry that I’ve pushed you into a situation you weren’t prepared for,” Obi-Wan says softly. Jango is a good man, he’s sure of it, and the idea of hurting him in any way is abhorrent. 

“No! No, no, it’s fine, really! I’m fine. I’m actually more fine now I know you’re fine.” He raises those soft, earnest eyes to Obi-Wan’s. “I don’t like the idea that you’d think I wouldn’t want to, you know, return the favor. You’re my _riduur_ \- we’re partners now, equals. You’re not some prize or toy or…” he shakes his head again, trailing off. 

“I know our customs can feel strange,” Obi-Wan admits. “I was raised off-planet until I was fourteen. It took me a long time to adapt.” 

They both find themselves leaning back against the couch, their bodies angled towards one another. Obi-Wan tucks his legs up under himself and leans in a little closer. This is all he’s wanted. A quiet moment with Jango, just to get to know him better. 

“That must’ve been tough,” Jango says quietly. “Where were you?”

Obi-Wan hesitates. He doesn’t want to lie to Jango, but neither does he want to lose this warm, comfortable peace. “On Coruscant, mostly,” he says, not lying. 

Jango rolls his eyes but doesn’t leap to any conclusions. “Thought there was something all central core about that accent of yours. You speak Mando’a like a scholar.”

“At least I speak it,” Obi-Wan teases. 

“You’ll have to teach me Stewjoni,” Jango grins. 

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “How will I be able to gossip about you with my handmaids if you know what I’m saying?”

His smile becomes a smirk. “Gossip, huh?”

“Of course!” It’s so easy to fall into a pattern of gentle teasing. Jango’s expression is soft and open, and he truly is the most breathtakingly stunning man Obi-Wan has ever met. It’s easy to fall in love with a face so kind and so beautiful, and if he doesn’t guard his heart he can see it happening with ease. “You’re very beautiful and half the Court is already in love with you.”

Alarm flashes in Jango’s expression. “They are?”

This is too much fun. “Oh yes! There’s poetry, songs… I think someone has written a play about you…”

“That’s… kriff, that’s terrifying. Why would they do that?”

“Oh, I am sure they have their reasons,” Obi-Wan chuckles. He’s ready to list them, greatly enjoying the embarrassed flush that has yet to bleed from Jango’s cheeks. 

Then Jango yawns, and it hits Obi-Wan that days on Stewjon are seven hours longer than days on Mandalore. 

“Kriff, sorry,” Jango says, starting to push himself up into a less comfortable position. 

Obi-Wan pushes him back down with a gentle hand. “Don’t,” he says. He tells himself that it’s better Jango stays than tries to leave now, that he’s too tired to navigate the palace security back to his rooms. He tells himself that and ignores the fact that he just doesn’t want Jango to leave. “Just… rest a moment.”

“I’m not tired,” Jango says, yawning again. 

“No,” Obi-Wan says in a soft whisper, “of course not. Here -“ he pulls the soft eiderdown throw that drapes the back of the couch and lays it over Jango’s legs. That softness, plus the warmth of the room and the long, stressful day, makes light work of Jango’s resistance. By the time Obi-Wan has tucked him under the blanket, his eyes are half-lidded and heavy. 

They won’t be allowed to share a bed together to sleep for a year, and only then if Jango requests it and Obi-Wan approves. A year seems impossibly far away. 

But this isn’t a bed, and if Obi-Wan curls himself up next to his _grādh_ and closes his eyes just for a minute…..

* * *

“What did you _do_?” The absolute glee in those words makes it hard to stay still and quiet. He's indulgently comfortable and the world really does just need to kriff off and leave him alone for another ten minutes. 

“Hush! Don’t wake him up.” That’s Obi-Wan, his voice pitched low and soft. “I forgot the days are so much longer here.”

“You do not have a man - a very attractive man that you are married to, I might add - sleeping in your bedroom and get to tell me that he was just ‘tired’.”

“Stop teasing him, Oné.” Shmi’s voice joins the conversation and Jango nearly groans in embarrassment. The sooner he’s off this planet, the better. The few hours he’s been asleep for officially count as the longest stretch of time he’s gone without embarrassing himself since landing. 

“I’m not teasing,” Oné protests. “I am fully in support of your life choices.” It occurs to Jango that Myles and Oné must never be allowed to meet. 

“Letting him stay here was a risk,” Shmi warns. “If your father finds out -“

“He won’t,” Obi-Wan says calmly. “Besides, we just talked.”

“Well that was a wasted opportunity,” Oné scoffs. “If your brother storms in again we’re going to have to hide him under the bed.”

“He didn’t see -“ the concern in Shmi’s voice stirs something uncomfortable in Jango’s gut that only hardens when Obi-Wan rushes to reassure her that he’d covered his face before Jango got a good look. “Good. That’s good.”

He can’t keep up the pretence any longer. Carefully pushing back the blanket that’s been tucked around him - and realising with a hopelessly lovestruck little pang that Obi-Wan must’ve covered him in the night - he sits up, ready to face the music. 

Over by the vanity, Obi-Wan is sat with his two attendants. Sunlight streams through from the balcony and the broken vase has been cleared away. 

How long was he out for?

“Good morning, Lord Fett.” Shmi is the first to notice. She and Oné are stood on either side of Obi-Wan, who has his back to Jango. Both give neat little bobs, their chins tucked down. 

Jango clears his throat, glad that he’s at least wearing more clothes this time. “Lady Shmi,” he glances at her companion, unwilling to let on that he’s been listening in to their conversation. 

“Oné, my lord.” 

He doesn’t know if he should great Oné as a Lord, or something else. Eager not to offend him, Jango bows his head a little instead. “Good morning, Obi-Wan,” he says, and pretends not to notice the little sigh Oné gives when Jango refers to his _riduur_ by name. 

“Good morning, Jango. I’d turn to greet you properly, but-“

“Then you’d have to kill me?” Jango teases, thinking of all their many rituals. 

Utterly deadpan, Obi-Wan replies with a wry, “Precisely.”

Shmi doesn’t bother hiding her smile as she resumes her work. Nimble fingers make quick work of Obi-Wan’s long hair and it’s clear she’s responsible for the elaborate braids he wears. On Obi-Wan’s other side, Oné holds one of his pale hands in his own and carefully draws navy blue patterns into his skin. 

There’s something very intimate and easy about the way the three of them are positioned and as fascinating as he’s finding it, it’s clear Jango is intruding in yet another space he has not been invited to. Obi-Wan was kind enough to let him stay last night; Jango owes him similar consideration. 

“I will leave you in peace,” he says, bowing his head again. 

“Or you could stay and eat,” Obi-Wan offers, still not turning to face Jango. “I figured you’d be hungry.” He lifts the hand that isn’t being painted and points to a large table on the far side of the room. There are the same platters of fruit and soft cheeses from the feast, but beside them, resting on a heated stand is a bowl of porridge that’s drizzled with thick syrup and sprinkled with crushed nuts. It looks - and smells - like it might actually have some flavor. The fact that Obi-Wan has clearly been awake long enough to have food sent for is one thing, but it’s far more significant that Jango has slept through the whole process. He feels at ease with Obi-Wan in a way that’s both unexpected and almost alarming. 

He’s also really hungry. 

Myles is gonna kill him, but he wanders over to the table, picks up a bowl, and props himself back on the couch. “So talk me through the hair thing,” he says, wide awake and curious and comfortable. 

Oné bites down on his lip so hard it looks like it’s causing him physical pain, but Shmi is as cool and collected as Obi-Wan. “Hair thing, my lord?”

She’s messing with him, but that’s fine. Eventually, Obi-Wan is going to have to deal with Myles; it’s only fair Jango gets put through something similar. “The braids. Do they have any meanings, or…” he’s starting to think that there isn’t a single thing Stewjoni do that doesn’t have some deeper symbolism. If he doesn’t start learning now he’s in danger of doing more than just embarrass himself. He wants Obi-Wan to feel comfortable with him. Comfortable, and safe. 

“There are thirteen thousand twelve hundred and eighty-four different braid variations with recognized symbolic meanings,” Shmi says, sectioning off a long strand of Obi-Wan’s hair and running a comb through the length of it. “Plus innumerable adaptations, personalizations and experimentation.”

Jango stares at her. That’s… so the chances of there being a hairstyle that secretly means ‘kriff off, Jango’ is higher than he’s feared. “You know all of them?”

“Of course,” Shmi says. 

“A number of them are Shmi’s designs,” Obi-Wan says. “Many of the styles worn at Court end up being replicated throughout society in some way.”

The porridge is good. Not spicy, but not bland, and it warms him from the inside. Between mouthfuls, he taps the spoon absently on the side of the heated bowl. “Don’t you ever just wear it loose?”

“Do you go out in public with no clothes on?”

“I -“ once, and that was entirely Myles’s fault, “no? Kriff, is this like me seeing your bare face?” Last night Obi-Wan had worn his hair loose, but it had been elaborately adorned by gold chains and gemstones. When Jango snuck into his room, he’d covered his face, but Jango hasn’t really thought about his hair in the same way. 

“Not quite,” Obi-Wan chuckles, “but near enough.”

“So this is…” Him, sitting there, eating breakfast and watching Obi-Wan prepare for the day ahead. 

“The equivalent of watching me bathe,” Obi-Wan finishes for him. Oné has to stop painting in order to smother his giggles in the back of his hand.

Jango gets a sudden mental image of doing just that, preferably in the heated baths in the grounds of the palace at Sundari, after dark and candlelit, the gardens closed off to the public, steam rising and-

“I can just go launch myself off the balcony if you like?” He offers sheepishly.

“I’ll let you off this once,” Obi-Wan laughs. Shmi then proceeds to slide a long, wickedly sharp looking pin into a set of coiled braids. Something like that can do a lot of damage if used right, but it vanishes under carefully set plaits. Shmi then fastens a curtain of glittering green gemstones to the crown of his head. No one looking will see the pin, and any pass through a security scanner will be disguised by the delicate net. 

Jango grins to himself. Stronger than he looks, bolder than he acts, and now with hidden weapons. His _riduur_ might fit in with the Mando’ade better than expected. 


	8. Chapter 8

While Obi-Wan often struggles to think of anything nice to say about his brother, he genuinely adores his sisters. Eithne, the oldest, shares the same red hair and blue eyes of both Obi-Wan and their mother. Like their mother, she has a gentle spirit and a diplomat’s heart. Unlike their mother, she’s a shameless gossip who delights in making Obi-Wan laugh so hard he can’t breathe. Cadhla is closest to Obi-Wan in age, only a year older, and she bosses him around every chance she gets. Her dark eyes are always bright with mischief, something she’s passed on to Obi-Wan’s nephew. 

Neither lives on Stewjon anymore. Cadhla is married to a prince of Alpinn, an alliance that has brought Stewjon a great deal of influence in trade. Eithne’s marriage to a Senator from Corellia no longer makes the tabloids, but it’s not through lack of trying. 

After today, Kai-Van will be the only one of them left on Stewjon. For all his brother’s many, many faults, Obi-Wan can’t help but pity him. When he leaves, Kai-Van embraces him, as his sisters do, and though he lacks their joy for him, he manages to hold his vicious tongue despite himself. 

In true Stewjoni fashion, Obi-Wan and Jango’s departure is a grand affair, one made tolerable by Jango’s poorly hidden smile as they walk hand in hand from the platform where the Royal family have congregated. Shmi and Oné follow close behind, dressed in glossy purples and gold, their expressions serene, despite the emotional significance their departure holds for the both of them. 

Oné has bid farewell to his family. Obi-Wan already has plans for inviting them out to visit soon, under the guise of strengthening the relationship between Stewjon and Mandalore. Having Stewjoni children raised and educated in Sundari will be a boon for both sides, and Oné won’t have to be parted from his dear ones for long. 

As for Shmi… Obi-Wan cannot return Anakin to her, but she is content he is being cared for by the Jedi. Stewjon has been her home for as long as it has been Obi-Wan’s. The only home she has ever known, and the only place she has ever been free. Obi-Wan regrets taking that familiarity and safety from her more than anything, no matter how often she tries to assure him. Seeing both her and Oné settled and happy in Sundari is the first of many tasks he must turn his attention to. 

The full impact of the Mandalorian contingent becomes even more obvious as they grow closer to their transport and pass regimented rows of armored, armed soldiers, all of whom merely await Jango’s command. 

Half will be staying behind in Corvie. The other half will be their escort to Sundari. 

“Obi-Wan,” Jango gets his attention once they reach the ramp leading into the Mandalorian cruiser, “I’d like you to properly meet Myles, my chief military advisor and oldest friend.” There’s genuine warmth and affection in his voice, and the two of them stand together with an ease that says they have always done so. 

Myles has been a steadfast presence at Jango’s side since his arrival on Mandalore, but aside from a brief moment during their wedding, Obi-Wan has had little chance to speak to him. He looks forward to that changing. The journey to Mandalore will take them five days. More than enough time to start building strong foundations of friendship before they arrive. 

“ _Alor’riduur_ ,” Myles bows his head. He’s a handsome man with dark skin and black hair worn a little longer than Jango’s. His red _beskar’gam_ is etched with the emblem of Clan Mereel, leading Obi-Wan to wonder if he and Jango are somehow related. He knows Jango is a foundling and that family ties on Mandalore are very different from those on Stewjon. “It will be my honor to see you safely to Sundari.”

“Thank you, Alor’aan,” he says. For the ease of travel, his traditional headdress has been exchanged for a band of dark green velvet worn across his forehead and Shmi has fastened his hair into an elaborate crown of braids. His gown, though heavy and the same green velvet as the circlet, lacks the structure and volume of many of his usual outfits. He’s still tightly corseted. Though his travel wardrobe is all designed to be practical in the smaller spaces of a spaceship, comfort is not part of the equation. Still, it’s far easier now to incline his head and return Myles’s greeting. 

Myles flashes him a dazzling grin. “Call me Myles and I’ll tell you stories about this one as an _adiik_.” He elbows Jango, who scowls halfheartedly. 

“If you call me Obi-Wan,” he agrees easily, delighting at the idea. 

“In private,” Jango says warningly. 

“Of course!” Myles then offers Obi-Wan his arm to escort him inside the ship. 

It would be _terribly_ rude to refuse him. Obi-Wan rests his hand on the back of Myles’s arm and pretends to miss the silent conversation he and his _grādh_ are having with their eyebrows. 

Their easy friendship is soothing. Reassuring. Shmi and Oné follow, their support silent but easily felt, and the affection that flows between Jango and Myles makes it easy to turn his heart to the future. 

He steps onto the cruiser and leaves Stewjon behind him.

* * *

  
Two hours after they depart Stewjon, Jango finds Myles leaning in the doorway of the main lounge, arms crossed over his chest. Curious, he leans around him to see into the room, and his eyebrows make a sharp climb in surprise. 

Obi-Wan is sat at one of the communal tables, his back straight and his hands held neatly in his lap, looking every bit the lone flower in a workshop of clankers where he’s surrounded on all sides by heavily armed, fully armored commandos. While Jango is still trying to get his head around the juxtaposition of his _riduur_ \- beautiful and dressed in soft, delicate fabrics, painted and polished and sparkling like a jewel - happily conversing with _verde_ he knows for a fact will often wear the same underwear for a week straight, it takes him a full minute to realize that the _Mando’ade_ are hanging off his every word. 

“He’s teaching them how to swear in Stewjoni,” Myles informs him with a grin. “And _damn_ , it’s a salty language.”

“Obi-Wan doesn’t swear,” Jango mumbles, which is total banthashite for all he knows. “He’s far too dignified.”

Across the room, Obi-Wan carefully sounds out the prettiest words. His language is as lilting and lovely as his people and Jango needs to encourage him to use it even when on Mandalore. 

“ _Falbh a ghabhail do ghnùis airson cac_.”

“What’s that one mean?” The _vod_ on Obi-Wan’s right is one of the young ones. Old enough to have cut his teeth in a fight, but not wise enough to know when to keep his mouth shut around a pretty face. 

“Roughly? Go take your face for a shit.” Obi-Wan looks and sounds so perfectly innocent when he speaks, even when the _verde_ around him howl and cheer gleefully. 

“You alright there?” Myles cackles, clapping Jango hard on the shoulder. “You look a little queasy.”

“I’m gonna marry that man,” Jango says seriously. 

Myles doesn’t look like he’s had this much fun in years. “You did that already.”

“No, I mean like really marry him.” 

“Right,” Myles snorts. “Because the thousand-plus page document you just signed doesn’t really count for anything.”

“Not really,” Jango says. “It means he’s my _riduur_ , not that he cares for me.” 

“So court him,” Myles says, oddly gentle. 

Right. Everything Jango has to offer he has already given. Protection for Obi-Wan’s people, a promise of respect and comfort on Mandalore. What else does he have? 

Before he can worry about being caught staring wistfully across at a man the law says is already his, both his and Myles’s comms chime with a message from the bridge. 

Myles takes it first, his eyebrow climbing. They’re in the middle of nowhere and will be for another two days. Short of an engine malfunction, there’s no reason for the pilots to need anything from them. 

“ _Elek_?”

“ _Alor’aan_. _We’re picking up a distress signal on the long-range sensors. I’ve pinpointed its location and we’ll be passing in the next five minutes_.”

Obi-Wan appears at their side, as smooth and silent as a shadow. His appearance catches Myles off guard, and Jango only sees him coming because his gaze already strayed back towards him. 

The _verde_ are all waiting quietly, ready to jump into action the second an order is issued. 

“Is everything alright?” Obi-Wan asks, sounding genuinely concerned and not merely irritated by the disruption. 

“You should go back to your room,” Jango tells him, turning to walk with Myles up towards the bridge. Obi-Wan’s room is the most luxurious on the cruiser, but it’s also the most secure. Once the security protocols are triggered, nothing short of a torpedo is getting through the blast doors. 

“I could,” Obi-Wan agrees, following him, keeping pace despite his clothing. “We’ve picked up a distress signal?”

The fact that he heard that much from the other side of the room spells trouble for any future secrets Jango might want to keep from him. 

“It could be anything,” Myles says. 

“One would assume it’s someone in distress,” Obi-Wan responds with a touch of that hidden dry wit. 

“Or pirates,” Jango points out, “using a dummy signal to lure in their next target.” A ship like this would be a fine prize for any pirate. They’d never take it alive, of course, but since there’s no stamp on the side to indicate it’s full of bored Mando’ade, a highly tempting target. 

“I suppose we won’t know until we investigate,” Obi-Wan smiles. 

Myles shoots Jango a pointed look. 

“ _If_ we investigate,” Jango grumbles, letting Obi-Wan step pass him in order to enter the bridge. 

“If a cruiser full of Mandalore’s finest warriors can’t safely investigate a signal that may or may not be pirates then I truly worry what I’ve signed up for.” His pretty, painted face sets in an expression of quiet provocation. 

Son of a…

Myles is at least decent enough to turn away from them before snickering. 

“ _Alor_?” A voice from the co-pilot’s chair speaks up, saving Jango from saying something he knows he’ll quickly regret. 

“ _What_?”

He knows he intimidates people, both by action and reputation, but to the pilot’s credit, he holds his ground. “We’ve picked up audio.”

“Patch it through,” Jango nods, pointedly ignoring Obi-Wan’s serene little smile.

“ _Mayday, this is Jedi Master Adi Galia. Our ship has been attacked and life-support is failing. My apprentice is injured and in critical condition. Please respond. Mayday, this is-_ “ The pilot cuts off the message as it starts to repeat, but not in time to stop ice-cold dread crash over Jango, a tide breaking against the wall of a cliff.

Numbness spreads from the tips of his fingers and toes, not stopping until it reaches his heart. 

_Jetii_. 

Being this close to one, even when separated by metal and by space, makes his skin crawl, the screams of Galidraan ringing in his ears and drowning out the soft concern in Obi-Wan’s voice as he calls Jango’s name. 

It’s Myles who brings him back. Myles, who understands in a way no one else can. Who nearly bled to death on that cursed ground, left for dead, left to crawl over the bodies of their kin while the _Jetii_ took everything from Jango but his life. 

“Leave them,” Myles orders, his shoulder bumping Jango’s. “Continue course.”

“You can’t leave them!” Obi-Wan exclaims, horror rising in his eyes. “You heard what she said! Jango-“ he takes a step closer to Jango, hands outreached and imploring. 

The pilots are already obeying orders. Myles’s word is as good as Jango’s. 

“You should go back to your room,” Jango struggles to find his voice around the lump of cold horror in his throat. He doesn’t want Obi-Wan to see him like this. 

Under the thick weight of his robes, it’s hard to tell if Obi-Wan actually stomps his foot, or just looks like he wants to. “No! Jango, you can’t leave them out there!”

“It’s already done.”

“You’d really let them die?” The incredulous ire in Obi-Wan’s voice comes as a surprise. A disappointing one. His _riduur_ has fire in his soul, but for all Jango’s joy at finding it, he’s still a spoiled, sheltered princeling with no idea how the galaxy works. 

“I’d let them board the ship and kill them myself if I thought they deserved a quick end. As it is, starving to death in the vast coldness of space is still too good for them.”

“ _Why_?”

“They’re Jedi,” the word burns his throat just to speak. He doesn’t expect Obi-Wan to understand. He _does_ expect him to respect Jango’s decision. He knows it’s not easy - he understands that this is possibly the first time Obi-Wan has ever had any say in whether someone lives or dies, and it’s not the way Jango wishes him to learn. 

Obi-Wan physically recoils from him. “And that means they deserve death?”

“It means they deserve worse,” Jango snarls, the sight of Obi-Wan's clear disgust dragging sharply over his exposed nerves. 

“She has an apprentice with her! Jedi apprentices are usually children, Jango, please!” 

A ring of understanding hits. Obi-Wan grew up on Coruscant. As a prince, he's possibly even met Jedi. He knows enough about them to hold a belief in fairytales, and not enough to know their true danger. 

The fact of the matter is that the _Jetiise_ on Galidraan were apprentices at some point, too. If someone had put them down like they deserve, a massacre might have been avoided. 

“Better they die now before they can grow up,” Jango says cooly. For all that he hates to be the one to steal from Obi-Wan the childish notion of the Jedi as the heroic saviors of the galaxy, better he learns now, at a distance. 

Perhaps that’s why it cuts so deeply when Obi-Wan looks at him with a judgement he has no right to and says, “You are a cruel man, Jango Fett.”

The bridge is as silent as a tomb. No one dares interrupt them, and Jango refuses to meet Myles’s gaze no matter how badly he wants to. 

He takes a step close to his _riduur_. “Perhaps. Be mindful of that before you question me again.”

Obi-Wan scoffs, not in the least intimated by Jango or the _Mando’ade_ he’s surrounded by. “And you’re a dishonorable one, too.” He turns on his heel with a flurry of red hair and velvet. More than one of the guards jumps out of his way as he storms off the bridge. 

“So,” Myles breaks the silence as the bridge doors slide closed. “That could’ve gone better. What do you want us to do?”

Ideally? Turn back the chrono and pretend this whole conversation never happened. “You’ve given the order,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Yeah, but you’re the one who’s got to live with him,” Myles is wide-eyed when he waves a hand in the direction Obi-Wan headed. “We’re passing Charros IV in forty hours - it’s part of the Republic, we could pick them up and dump them there?”

Jango doesn’t want a _Jetii_ on his kriffing ship. Picking them up is a recipe for disaster. It could even be a trap. 

Every instinct he has tells him to let Myles’s order stand. 

He sighs so heavily he feels the weight of it in his chest. “Pick them up. Lock them in the brig. Keep them drugged. Double the watch. No one goes anywhere alone until they’re off my ship.”

Myles nods sharply. “ _Alor_.” Then, quietly, just between the two of them, he says, “If you explained things to him… he wouldn’t think so harshly of you.”

“He knows my situation,” Jango says tersely. “There’s no need to go into detail.”

“Maybe it would help him understand?”

Perhaps. Perhaps not. But Jango swore an oath to protect his _riduur_. That means protecting him from the _Jetii_. And it means protecting him from Jango’s own demons.

He might understand, but it will break Jango’s heart if he does. 


	9. Chapter 9

He lets Myles see to the _jetii_. 

The alternative is bloodshed, but as it is he’s not sure he’s going to avoid it, regardless. 

“Please, Lady Shmi, I’d like to see him.” There’s something surreal about standing in the corridors of his own ship, having to politely ask to see his _riduur_. He’s cleared everyone from the hallway, leaving guard stationed on either exit, but there is every chance the bridge is full of _verde_ spying on the security cameras. 

He’s known from the start that Shmi could either help or hinder him in his relationship with Obi-Wan. Now she stands on the inside of the doorway, calm and blank-faced, secure in the knowledge that any attempt by Jango to enter without her permission is a sure diplomatic clusterfuck in the making. 

“He will not see you, Lord Fett,” she says calmly. Her dark eyes are solid and unflinching. 

There’s a surprise. A temper tantrum that’s going to give Jango a headache once the inevitable gossip hits Sundari, and now he’s sulking in his rooms like a child. 

“He can’t stay in there forever,” Jango points out. Not unless he wants Jango to have to drag him kicking and screaming to the Palace. Shmi merely raises her eyebrow. “Then will you tell him that we are picking the _jetii_ up, as per his request?” His jaw actually hurts with how tightly he clenches it, “and will be delayed in our return to Mandalore in order to see them delivered to the relevant authorities.”

“Tell me yourself,” Obi-Wan’s terse voice sounds from inside the suite. 

It’s Jango’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

Shmi looks over her shoulder and shares a silent conversation with Obi-Wan, before bobbing neatly and stepping aside to let Jango pass. 

“Thank you,” he says and means it. He's angry with Obi-Wan, not her. 

She levels him with another hard stare before slipping quietly from the room and letting the door close behind her. 

The suite is an elegant space, with a comfortable sleep couch hidden behind a shimmering privacy screen, and a large social space for entertaining. The whole of one wall is a digital portal, projecting the stars and planets that hang in the blackness around them. They’ve dropped out of hyperspace to make their collection, and the view is exquisite. 

It holds Obi-Wan’s attention, his back to Jango. 

“You heard?” Jango asks, clasping his hands behind his back in a light parade rest. 

“Yes. If you’re here to apologize-“

Jango draws back sharply. “Why would _I_ apologize? I’m not the one who called your honor into question in front of your own men, and I’m not the one who-“

Obi-Wan whirls around to face him. “You say I’m not a prize or something to be used, but the moment we disagree you threaten me and scold me like a child!”

Jango stares at him. He’s come prepared for anger, but he’s still taken back by the rage in his _riduur’s_ eyes. He’s always thought of blue as a cold color, but they burn with all the furious heat of a supernova. It makes it difficult to focus on the words he’s actually saying. Is that what he did? Did he threaten Obi-Wan? It’s not what he intended, but if that’s how Obi-Wan has taken it… “No, no, that’s not what I-“

The air around Obi-Wan faintly crackles with his anger. “Tell me, Jango, what cruelty am I to be subjected to? Is your kindness conditional, or am I merely meeting the man you truly are? What is the punishment on Mandalore for disagreeing with your spouse?” 

It hits him then that Obi-Wan’s anger is a blessing when the alternative is his fear.“Punishment? Obi-Wan, no. I would _never_ harm you!“ He takes a step forward, his palms held out in a gesture of peace. 

Unlike their fight on the bridge, this time Obi-Wan takes a step back. 

Jango has spent years building himself a fearsome reputation, one that has served him well and allowed him to restore the honor he lost at Galidraan. It’s a weapon to be turned on his enemies and a shelter behind which he can protect his loved ones. 

Or it should be. The idea that he has miscalculated so badly, that Obi-Wan is _afraid_ of him now, is intolerable. 

Obi-Wan tucks his hands into the edges of his sleeves and crosses his arms over his chest. It’s defensive, wary, and at odds with the way his eyes flash. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe you!”

This is all spiralling faster than Jango can keep up with, and it’s somehow even worse than their fight on the bridge. Jango’s own rage has faded somewhat in the face of Obi-Wan's fear, and though he feels on edge and anxious knowing there are _jetiise_ so close by, he’s calm enough to want to smooth over the cracks that have shattered the ground between the two of them. 

But he’s never had to apologize for his temper. It’s been something others have prized and nurtured, and he doesn’t even know how to start adapting to the fact that Obi-Wan _isn’t_ another _verde_. Every strategy Jango has is ill-suited for his _riduur_. “I swear to you,” he says, his voice tight, “on my honor-“

Obi-Wan’s bark of laughter is brittle. “What honor? I just watched you condemn two people to death for no other reason than because you felt like it! It makes you heartless at best, monstrous at worst, and renders your honor worthless!”

There’s an instinctive urge to meet such an insult with violence. One he catches before it can manifest, but one Obi-Wan seems to instinctively know exists. He raises a delicate, emerald painted eyebrow as if to mock him with his own weakness. 

Feeling his heckles rise, he snarls, “I have my reasons!”

All those soft daydreams of Obi-Wan’s placid expression twisting into anger are nothing on the reality. He’s got a scowl that can strip the paint off the hull of their cruiser, and aristocratic scorn that’s borderline infuriating. “Then tell me! Tell me what crimes the Jedi have committed that makes their cold-blooded murder acceptable.”

He’s seriously asking that? 

Jango has labored under the impression that his _riduur_ is a kind, soft-hearted man, but if he can stand there and ask Jango that… “You know what happened at Galidraan!”

Obi-Wan throws his hands in the air, the wide hems of his sleeves forming an explosion of color around him.“No! No, I don’t.”

That stops Jango’s anger in its tracks. “What?”

And with his quiet, broken question, the heat seems to drain from Obi-Wan’s body. He presses a hand lightly to his chest and takes a slow, careful breath before sinking elegantly onto the couch and looking up at Jango with frighteningly vulnerable eyes. “They told me you died. It was all very clinical. ‘ _We’re terribly sorry, you grādh was killed in action, would you like to marry his successor’s son instead?_ ’”

Jango understands the words as they are spoken, but it takes a long moment before the pieces range themselves in his head and he really understands what Obi-Wan is saying. “ _What_?”

Obi-Wan’s lips twist into a humorless smile “Oh yes. They weren’t interested in upholding the same terms of the agreement, so it never happened. It made securing another alliance with me as collateral impossible, not that my father didn’t try. The ones who didn’t care that I was Mandalore’s reject didn’t want to risk them possibly changing their minds. Then, all of a sudden you appear again. Not dead, and apparently having spent most of the last decade fucking around as a bounty hunter. So no, Jango, I don’t know what happened at Galidraan and I don’t know what happened in the years after it.”

Jango sinks down onto the couch beside him. They aren’t as close as they were when Jango visited him in his rooms - and now, after this, he can only wonder what Obi-Wan truly thought of him breaching their agreement.

There’s so much to unpick there - not least the horror that fills him at the thought of Pre kriffing Viszla marrying Obi-Wan in his place. 

Then, selfishly, the realization that Obi-Wan doesn’t know about Galidraan catches in his throat. He wonders why he’s surprised. History is written by the victors. _Kyr'tsad_ will never admit the _Jetii's_ part in their stolen victory, and the _Jetiise_... well, they can't keep convincing people they're peacekeepers when the stories all tell of their brutality now, can they? 

If Obi-Wan doesn’t know, doesn’t understand… then yes, Jango must appear monstrous to him. 

It means Myles is right. And it means Jango needs to tell him. 

To _talk_ about it. About that day, and the days that followed. 

He knows it has to happen sometime, that he needs to address his trauma professionally if he is to be the best _Mand’alor_ he can be. And the best _riduur_. 

Just not now. Not so soon. And not when there are _Jetii_ on his ship, close enough to use their kriffing magic to suck in his pain. 

He can’t. 

“ _Jetii_ butchered my people on Galidraan,” Jango cokes the words out, aching and cold. “They slaughtered everyone on sight. They’re monsters, all of them. And if letting two of them die rather than endangering my men - endangering _you_ \- makes me a monster, too…” he shakes his head. That's all Obi-Wan needs to know. 

He’s not a good man, he knows that. But dishonorable… after years spent fighting to regain what the jetii took from him, that accusation hurts more than any wound. 

More than anything, he just wants Obi-Wan to understand that he doesn’t do the things he does to be cruel. He does them because he has lived for too long with the consequences of his weakness and refuses to make the same mistakes twice. 

Obi-Wan stands abruptly, jolting Jango out of his thoughts. He follows, pulled by an invisible thread and the aching need to make everything right again. 

Then Obi-Wan turns, putting his back to Jango. “Help me with this?” He waves a finger at the tiny clasps at the back of his gown. 

“What?”

“The laces. I can’t reach.” 

He wants Jango to unfasten them? 

_Why_ does he want Jango to unfasten them? There are another eight days before their next…liaison. Kriff. Contractual sex is one thing when both parties are on the same page, but the idea of taking Obi-Wan to his bed after hearing him ask if Jango’s kindness has been nothing more than a ploy…

“We shouldn’t, I mean, it’s not - I’m not -“

Obi-Wan looks over his shoulder, his expression grave. There’s nothing seductive about it, but neither is there any kind of resignation. “The laces, Jango.”

“Right.” He lifts his fingers and tries to be as careful as possible with the small clasps. They’re suited to someone with small hands, like Shmi, and with each fumbled unclasping, Jango’s fingers only become more unsteady. 

Standing so close to Obi-Wan, he can smell the perfume that lingers in his hair. The warmth of his body, even through the heavy velvet, makes Jango want to stand closer, to step into his personal space, slide his arms around Obi-Wan’s waist, and just hold him. 

He imagines Obi-Wan going cool and stiff in his arms for daring to touch him, and forces the desire to the back of his heart.

When he’s finally unfastened the last of the clasps, Obi-Wan lets the heavy fabric slide from his shoulders. There’s a very fine robe beneath it, one that’s synched by a tight corset. It’s a thick, sturdy-looking thing, and Jango wonders what it feels like to have so much pressure around your chest all day. 

The purpose of Obi-Wan’s orders is still uncertain. 

“Now the corset,” Obi-Wan says. 

Jango hesitates. This is already the most intimate thing they’ve done - and he says that while being well aware of the fact that he spent himself down Obi-Wan’s throat only a day before. There’s a heaviness hanging in their air that’s only heightened by the fact that they are alone. 

“I really don’t know how to feel about this, Obi-Wan.” Still, Jango follows the orders he’s given, keen to prove to Obi-Wan that he has far more control than his actions have left him to believe. But, he’s wary. Wary, and conflicted as he struggles to loosen each of the tightly laced fastenings. This feels far too much, more than they were ready for even before their argument, and now… “You don’t have to-“ then he stops, realizing at once what Obi-Wan is trying to show him. 

The corset is laced over a gossamer-thin robe, one that bunches in fine folds above the laces. When Jango finishes loosening the top of the corset, he gets his first glimpse of Obi-Wan’s back. On their wedding night, his hair had covered him, but now it is tied up in tight, elaborate braids, leaving his neck - and now his shoulders and back - uncovered. 

Jango doesn’t mean to touch, but the tips of his fingers brush across the fine robe, moving almost without conscious thought up to Obi-Wan’s shoulders so he can slip the fabric down and reveal the thick web of scars hidden beneath. Some, like the curved, shiny burn that curls around his left shoulder, could be scars left by a childhood accident, but there’s no escaping the truth of the ten neat, thin scars that cut across his back. Nothing so regimented, so precise, comes from an accident. 

Horror and rage vie with his heartbreak, struggling for dominance as he lets his gaze slowly take in the implications of everything Obi-Wan is showing him. 

“Who did this?” He doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice, caught between denial and the reality he is being presented. “Obi-Wan, _who did this_?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Obi-Wan says as he shakes his head and turns, hiding his back once more from view. He’s holding the loosened fabric of his gown up to his chest to stop it from sliding down over his hips. Jango turns his back to him, giving him some privacy to fix his clothing as best he can. When he circles back around Jango, his sleeves are back in place, and a thick fur-lined shawl hides any unfastened fabric from sight. 

“It does matter,” Jango says, feeling the broken parts of himself rub together gratingly. “Of course it matters.”

“They’re dead,” Obi-Wan says, settling down on the couch and holding a hand out for Jango to sit opposite. “Hating them now has no impact on them, only on myself.”

“When?” The scars look old, and they’re well healed. 

“I told you I returned to Stewjon when I was fourteen?” Obi-Wan says, reminding Jango of their whispered nighttime conversation. He could be sat beside Obi-Wan now, their foreheads close. Instead, he’s kept at a distance, and something Obi-Wan might have revealed to him in his own time is being brought forward early. 

Jango nods. He claps his hands together above his knees, the better to stop himself trembling with fury. 

“The exact details are irrelevant,” Obi-Wan says, breaking eye contact for the first time since sitting down. He looks haunted - afraid - and Jango can no more push him for details than he can turn back time. “But I was taken hostage by a band of pirates. They didn’t know who I was - I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time - but the slavers they sold me to ran my chain code. When they realized they had a Stewjoni prince on their hands my ransom suddenly outweighed my value on the auction block.”

“I take it your father paid,” Jango says gruffly, desperately not thinking about how close Obi-Wan came to vanishing into the underworld forever. 

“We’re short on soldiers, not credits,” Obi-Wan says dryly. “He paid. And then they decided to keep me anyway. Twice the con, twice the value. Of course, I tried to escape. Didn’t get very far. Two of them held me down while another did this.” He lifts his hand and gestures at his back. 

“Obi-Wan,” Jango says, aching. That his _riduur_ has suffered at all is a burning brand to his heart, but that he suffered like _this_ , that he too knows the weight of chains and the shame of slavery. It’s more than he can stomach. 

“It’s alright,” Obi-Wan assures him. “As you can see, I was rescued.” He pauses and makes sure to catch Jango’s gaze. “By a Jedi. One who had never met me and had no reason to care about my fate, but who heard of my plight and came to rescue me.”

“One Jedi-“ Jango says, his throat burning and sour. 

“Save me." Obi-Wan says carefully. " Carried me out of that hell hole and treated my wounds. Held me and reassured me and protected me when I was frightened and vulnerable. Brought me to Stewjon. One Jedi. The Jedi on Galidraan, whether they be the monsters you describe, or something else, I cannot say. That experience is yours and I do not question it. But," he says, holding Jango's gaze and heart with equal care as he delivers the cold truth of his situation, "if the Jedi who saved me had encountered you before he made it to me, I would be dead. Or worse.”


	10. Chapter 10

Obi-Wan can see the impact of his word the moment he speaks them. 

He can see the lingering trauma in Jango’s gaze, recognizing the same far off look in his eyes that Obi-Wan once wore himself. It’s been years since his return to Stewjon, years in which he has lived a comfortable, safe life, and even now he will still sometimes wake with sweat cold on his brow and screams ringing in his ears. Jango is still fresh from those battles, his body still tense with the expectation of an attack. Whatever his experiences have been these past ten years, they’ve left deep wounds in his spirit. 

He knows Jango is afraid. Afraid of his past and the memories that come with it. Afraid of the Jedi. Afraid of being vulnerable. 

That fear leads to hate. Obi-Wan saw it in him on the bridge and the shadow still lingers now. Jango hates the Jedi, and Obi-Wan… Obi-Wan is not in a position to change that by revealing the extent of his own history with the Order. 

They are still little more than strangers. Obi-Wan is not enough of a Jedi to be held to their rules, and too much of one to escape recrimination should the truth come out. He’s also not naive enough to think that Jango’s thoughts on Jedi will change because of him, and while it’s a risk he might take with just his own life, there are Shmi and Oné to consider. And that’s before bringing his obligations to Stewjon into it. 

_Mando’ade_ have a reputation for being honorable and not reneging on their contractual obligations, but they also have a reputation for cherishing and protecting children. Jango was happy enough to turn his back on a Jedi child, and while Obi-Wan hopes that this is the exception, not the norm, he’s not about to risk it. Not yet. Not when his position is so precarious. 

The silence between them becomes heavier and more oppressive with each passing minute. Jango is lost in his own thoughts, Obi-Wan has said all that can be said, and what was once solid, if narrow, ground beneath them has become a quagmire of conflict. 

For a moment, Obi-Wan wonders if he has pushed too hard, too fast, but no. Unpleasant or not, Jango needed to hear him. It’s beyond clear that he sees Obi-Wan as something soft and delicate and in need of coddling, and while he’s in no rush to lose the advantage that blindness gives him, he’s not about to roll over meekly and allow a precedent to be set that might harm them both. 

The heavy ornamentation and theater he once hated is now a weapon as carefully crafted and deceptively dangerous as any lightsaber. He knows what he looks like, and he knows what people think of him. The wild, reckless child he once was might hate what he’s become, but he’s old enough - and possibly wise enough - to know the value in what he has become. 

Jango might think he likes the idea of a spouse who pushes his buttons and makes him work for his victories, but he’s quickly shown how poorly he reacts to any real sort of challenge. 

The easiest solution is to appease his ego, in public, if not in private. Jango should labor under no illusion that Obi-Wan is meek or submissive behind closed doors, but the chain of command on Mandalore is a fragile one. As angry as Obi-Wan is with his _grādh_ , he can’t risk undermining that. 

He left his own ego on the bloody streets of a war-torn planet years ago, and if a little public humiliation can ensure Jango’s standing in the eyes of his soldiers, so be it. 

He’s not, however, about to give it up for free. 

“I have a proposition for you,” he says mildly. Jango visibly startles, his gaze snapping back towards Obi-Wan, shadowed and bruised. There’s a faint air of exhaustion hanging about him that makes Obi-Wan pause to reconsider his options. 

But not for long.

“Yes?” Jango asks, his voice soft now, his anger burned out.

Obi-Wan sits straighter, regretting his inability to properly fix his clothing. “I’m aware that my outburst on the bridge may have put you in a difficult position with your men.” Jango opens his mouth to say something but falls silent when Obi-Wan raises a hand. “While I maintain I was justified in my response, it isn’t my intention to make your life more difficult than it already is.”

Jango swallows and nods slowly. “I appreciate that.”

“My proposal, then. I will make a suitably groveling public apology, and in return you allow me to attend the two Jedi.”

Jango’s curious expression drops like a ship with a broken engine. “No.”

“I’m visiting them regardless,” Obi-Wan says mildly. “You might as well get something out of it.”

Now he’s let go of his initial anger, there’s something almost endearing about the deeply set scowl on Jango’s face. “No, you’re not.”

“And you plan on stopping me how?” He’s sweet when he asks, sweet, and a little poisonous as Jango quickly catches on to the fact that he can’t keep his promise not to harm Obi-Wan and stop him doing what he wants at the same time. 

“I’ll lock the doors,” he huffs, his eyes narrowing. 

“This is an Empress Class Phase V Star Cruiser,” Obi-Wan points out. “The command console for which is right over there -“ he points at a panel on the far wall. “And since I do speak and read Mando’a I don’t think I’ll have any problems overriding any security protocols.”

Jango opens and closes his mouth. “Then I’ll tie you to the kriffing chair,” he says exasperatedly. 

Obi-Wan smiles. “As per our agreement, I’m not obliged to _let_ you tie me up for another eight days, so… you’re welcome to try.”

Jango manages to choke on air. “You’re not _what_ now?”

“Did you even read the contract before you signed it?”

“Of course I did! I think I’d notice something about kriffing tying you up!” 

“Section twenty-nine, subclause sixteen: Party A - that’s you - is entitled to demand any manner of coital conduct from Party B - myself - unless in direct violation of clauses twelve through fifteen.” At this point, Obi-Wan is mostly just messing with Jango. He deserves it. 

“Aside from the fact that there are clauses _before_ the ones saying I can’t kriffing murder you in your sleep-“ Jango rants, the vein above his right eye pulsing.

“Without incurring a hefty fine,” Obi-Wan adds serenely. 

Jango’s grumbled string of Mando’a is too low for him to hear without using the Force. “Aside from that,” he says slowly, “and the many, _many_ things in that contract that honestly freak me out, don’t think that changing the subject is going to convince me to let you walk into a cell with a kriffing _jetii_!”

Obi-Wan narrows his gaze. “You’re putting them in a cell?”

“What, you want me to give them the guest suite?”

“It would be polite.”

“Poli-“ Jango launches himself to his feet and starts to pace. “If this is your way of getting back at me for what happened on the bridge-“

“Oh yes,” Obi-Wan agrees. 

Jango’s nostrils flare. He’s doing a far better job of controlling his temper this time, either because they are in private or because Obi-Wan isn’t screaming in his face. He’s close, though, and Obi-Wan needs to know how far he can push before he returns to his instinctive violence. 

“They will be comfortable and _not dead_ ,” Jango says through clenched teeth. “Don’t ask any more from me.” Below the anger, Obi-Wan can feel the sharp edges of his pain grating against his senses. He’s trying and perhaps Obi-Wan is asking too much?

Softening his tone to something consolatory, Obi-Wan rises to his feet and tucks the edges of his shawl around his shoulders. “I promise I’m not putting myself at risk just to spite you,” he says gently. “But short of violence, you can’t keep me in here.” It’s Jango’s turn to tuck his arms over his chest. It’s a defensive position, one that’s mildly resentful, and he looks up at Obi-Wan with aching unease in his eyes. “I know what it’s like to lose someone I care for,” Obi-Wan says, laying his hands gently on either side of Jango’s arms. “I would never risk hurting you like that just to prove a point. The Jedi will not harm me, I am certain.”

“Who says I care about you?” Jango mutters, unable to maintain eye-contact. 

Obi-Wan chuckles. “ _Ghrá_ … if you didn’t care, you wouldn’t try to stop me.”

* * *

  
Jango steps out of Obi-Wan’s suite and finds Shmi and Oné waiting outside. He lets them pass, knowing Obi-Wan will need their help to redress himself before embarking on his insane mission. 

He feels… wrung out, his skin too big for his body, and is too exhausted to care what they might think of him. 

He makes his way towards the brig, wanting to ensure everything is as safe as possible before his stubborn, reckless _riduur_ wanders into the sarlac pit. 

Forget worrying about the spark of attraction dying out between them and leaving nothing behind - there’s a part of Jango that’s kriffing delighted by Obi-Wan’s fire - he’s now worried that just trying to keep up with his _riduur_ is going to send him to an early grave. He’s certainly got a way with words. In a different setting - and with someone else the target - he thinks he’s going to enjoy watching Obi-Wan verbally eviscerate someone.

But he’s not used to being questioned. He’s not used to being challenged. 

And he’s not used to being such a bad judge of character. 

He has good instincts, and a good eye, but he’s been complacent with Obi-Wan. He’s let himself be fooled by a pretty face and a mask of helplessness, mistaking what he’s assumed is a gentle nature for naïvety. Obi-Wan possibly _is_ spoiled, but he’s certainly not sheltered. 

He should be - Jango is more determined than ever to keep him happy and safe - but he’s seen the darkest dregs of the universe and survived to tell the tale. Underneath all that silk and velvet is a spine of beskar, and Jango will be foolish to pretend otherwise. 

And wherever they stand on the subject of _jetii_ , Jango can’t deny the impact of his damning words. 

These two _jetii_ \- two woman, bloodied and bruised and sending Jango’s instinct to protect into a violent collision with his experience of their cruelty - are they on their way to murder someone else’s family, or are they going to go and rescue a kidnapped child from slavery?

A small, shameful part of him hates Obi-Wan for making him even stop to ask that question. 

The _Jetii_ Master has both her arms around the young woman beside her, holding and supporting and protecting. She eyes him warily as they are marched past him into the brig, then hesitates when Myles puts a hand on her shoulder and steers her into one cell while Kade and Dura attempt to remove the apprentice from her arms. 

“Please,” the woman asks, her eyes fixed on Jango, knowing he’s in charge. “Please, she’s injured. Let me stay with her.”

“Inside,” Myles says gruffly.

They’re outnumbered. Myles has both their sabers clipped to his belt. And the girl is bleeding all over Jango’s floor. 

Anyone else - _anyone else_ \- and they’d be up in the med bay. He’d be offering them his own suite and use of his _baa’er._

But they are _jetii_. 

Kade and Dura carry the barely conscious girl into the cell opposite her Master’s. It’s bare. Clean, and better than any cage Jango was locked in, but hardly comfortable. 

From his console, he can control how bright it is inside and whether they can see through the energy barrier. He can control the temperature and sound, even the flow of air. One button and they’re suffocating to death. 

He can, in theory, do whatever he likes to them. They are entirely at his mercy. 

The fact that he even considers it, even for a second, fills him with self-loathing. 

Obi-Wan is right. He _is_ a monster. 

“ _Mand’alor_?”

He turns stiffly at the sound of Obi-Wan’s voice and finds no joy in the submissive way he stands of the cowed angle of his neck. Obi-Wan is doing this for his benefit, he’s not really so meek and intimidated, but it feels real. It feels real, and the sheer fact that it’s even necessary clenches his heart in his chest. 

This isn’t the _Mand’alor_ he wants to be. It’s not the Mandalore he loves. 

Then Obi-Wan kneels, and in flawless Mando’a, begs forgiveness for his disrespect and promises to obey him in the future. 

Myles will have questions - and possibly a sharp smack to the back of Jango’s head - but the brig is on camera, and there are enough guards on duty to ensure that everyone on board will soon know that Stewjon’s prince has properly submitted. 

Jango reaches down and lifts Obi-Wan back to his feet, his heart pounding violently. 

It’s too late. The _verde_ have seen. The _jetii_ have seen. 

And the least he can do now is let Obi-Wan have what he wants. 


	11. Chapter 11

It’s been over a decade since Obi-Wan last saw Siri Tachi. He felt her presence as he stepped into the brig, the brush of memory once familiar and now distant. They're only a year apart in age, but little Siri was always so serious - too serious to want to spend her time with the likes of Obi-Wan and his closest friends. Still. The sight of her here is a collision of worlds that are never supposed to overlap.

The last time he can remember speaking to her was before he left for Bandomeer, and while they were never friends, he’s preserved the memory of her alongside so many others from the Temple. Perfect crystals of time, images, and feelings he can look back on and remember the life he had before he convinced himself that becoming Qui-Gon Jinn’s apprentice was the only way he could possibly be happy. 

He wonders if she even remembers him. The chances of her even recognizing him are low. He doesn’t look like Obi-Wan Kenobi. He barely even feels like him anymore. 

Jango is silent and surly from his corner of the brig, but he makes no move to stop Obi-Wan from entering Siri’s cell, and when one of the _verde_ move to intercept him, they back off at his command. 

Shmi has helped him redress, but he’s kept the oversized, fur-lined and feather-trimmed shawl around his shoulders. The cells on this ship are nothing like the ones Obi-Wan was once kept in, but he remembers the cold almost as much as the pain. 

Kneeling down by Siri’s side, Obi-Wan unfastens it and lays it down on the floor. It’s easy to maneuver her onto it, giving her some protection from the cold beneath. Once he’s done examining her injuries, he can fold both sides around her. There’s little he can do for Master Galia without doing serious damage to Jango’s blood pressure, but she is in a far better state than Siri. Hopefully, she will be able to regulate her body temperature with light meditation. 

Aware that he’s being watched by more than just Siri’s Master, Obi-Wan makes quick work of peeling back the stiff and bloody tunic, immediately spotting the source of the bleeding. The wound doesn’t look particularly deep, but it’s long and ragged and at the rate she is bleeding there’s very little chance of her surviving the day without aid. 

He raises his head to try his luck at asking Jango for medical supplies, and finds him standing on the edge of the cell, his expression shadowed and severe. “If I send for a _baar’ur_ , will you go back to your room?” Jango asks in Mando’a. 

It isn’t a language easily turned towards softness, but Obi-Wan makes an attempt anyway. “I would sooner stay with them.”

Jango reaches up and rubs his forehead. “Are you trying to give me a headache?” 

“Not deliberately,” Obi-Wan promises. 

It doesn’t look like Jango believes him. “And when we’ve treated her, do you plan on spending the next few days keeping watch?” He lifts one expressive eyebrow in expectation of an answer, and it strikes Obi-Wan again just how lovely his face is. For all that Jango can put on a show of the stoic, expressionless leader, his eyes don’t fool anyone. And when he’s not deliberately trying to hide how he feels, his features spell out each emotion clearly. It’s endearing. 

Obi-Wan isn’t an emotionally demonstrative person by nature, and he much prefers the protection of blank serenity. The honesty - and heat - of Jango’s many expressions is a dangerously alluring call towards a burning ember he's not yet ready to stoke. 

He looks around the cell and shrugs. “I rather thought I’d stay here.” He can sit and keep an eye on Siri, meditate a little, try to bring his turbulent emotions back in line before they land and a complicated situation becomes exponentially more so. 

In a heartbeat, Jango looks almost as angry as he did on the bridge. “Obi-Wan, I am not landing in Sundari to the rumors that I kept my _riduur_ locked in a kriffing cell!”

That would be awkward. 

Looking down at Siri, he lets his consciousness brush hers. She needs more help than he can give her, and if Jango is willing to negotiate then the least he can do is meet him halfway.

“What do you suggest?”

Jango crosses his arm and jerks his chin towards Siri. “She stays here. You go back to your suite. The _baar’ur_ treat her injuries. We drop them off on Charros IV in two days, and that is the last we speak of it.”

“And they won’t be harmed?” Obi-Wan asks, this time in Basic. The fact that he’s even asking treads dangerously close to defying the promise he only just made to Jango. 

And to Jango’s credit, he’s not taken advantage of the leverage Obi-Wan has given him and simply ordered him to leave. A less honorable man would’ve done so. Once again, Obi-Wan struggles to match the Jango of the last few hours to the kind, gentle man who snuck into his rooms because he was worried, and who fell asleep on his couch, unguarded and vulnerable. 

“They will not be harmed,” Jango responds in Basic. The bright lights of the brig dances in his eyes and his voice carries all the authority of his position. 

Obi-Wan believes him. 

And he can ask no more. 

Leaving Siri in his shawl, he carefully rises and moves past Jango to step out of the cell. Her blood has left messy stains across the silk of his undersleeves, wet and sticky and almost black until it reaches his hands. Jango takes them in his own and turns each one over, looking for injuries he knows aren’t there and not releasing Obi-Wan until satisfied. 

By the time he is done, two _mando’ade_ in pale blue uniforms step into the brig, a medical droid hovering behind them. They salute Jango and bow their heads to Obi-Wan, then step into Siri’s cell and start the process of stabilizing her. 

Quietly, so only Obi-Wan can hear, Jango says, “You may stay and watch if you must, but the _verde_ will not let you back in her cell.”

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow and responds equally as softly. “So I’m not to be confined to my rooms?”

“So long as there’s an energy shield and a dozen _verde_ between you and the _jetii_ , I don’t care where you go.” He means it, too. Obi-Wan can read it in his eyes, and the simple shift in his posture says everything. 

Obi-Wan stepping into Siri’s cell didn’t make Jango angry, it frightened him. 

Siri is unconscious and surrounded by the best warriors Mandalore has to offer, and still Jango is afraid of her. 

And yet he let Obi-Wan do what he did, regardless. 

He wants nothing more than to reach up and touch Jango’s cheek with his fingers. He can’t regret forcing Jango’s hand, not when it’s likely what will save Siri’s life, but he does mourn the fissure that has opened up between them as a result. 

But if Jango is so distressed by Jedi and their presence on his ship, Obi-Wan cannot touch him with hands that are covered in their blood. 

Hoping that he can read the gratitude in his eyes as easily as he picked up on Obi-Wan’s anger, he simply says, “Thank you, Jango.”

Jango inclines his head, then leaves the brig. 

Myles, who has let their whole discussion play out without comment, stares Obi-Wan down for the longest time, his eyes sharp and his loyalty to Jango no doubt pushing him to assess exactly how much of a danger Obi-Wan poses. 

Whatever conclusion he comes to, he leaves without a word.

* * *

It’s not hard to find someone willing to spar with him. He doesn’t even have to ask. By the time he’s changed and stepped into the ample training area on the deck above the brig there’s a small cluster of _verde_ ready and willing to help him work off his agitation. When so much of their survival depends on reading body language, it’s not hard to pick up on the kind of tension Jango is carrying. 

It’s a mixed bag as far as opponents go. Some of the young ones want the chance to fight their Mand’alor, both to learn from him and to say they have. The ones Jango’s age know him best and can match their styles to his, and the elders give him the chance to really dig in deep and try new things. 

Each match is only three minutes; short, sharp, brutal. By the time he’s on his fifth opponent, he’s starting to loosen up. The first few hits he takes reverberate through his whole body, colliding with muscles coiled tight and stiff, and he’s bruised by the time Myles enters the Salle. 

Jango bumps forearms with the _verde_ he’s just finished sparring with and bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, anticipation building as Myles steps into the combat circle. 

Myles is his right hand in every way, his presence as essential and natural to Jango as his own arm. It makes them a formidable pair on the battlefield. And it makes them a whirlwind of violence on the mats. 

Jango is at a disadvantage; Myles is eight inches taller and has arms like a Gungan. He’s got the build of a war tank, and the sight of him has sent grown men running in fear. If he pins Jango down, it's game over. 

But what Jango lacks in height, he makes up for in speed, strength, and brutality. He is and always has been a scrappy fighter, preferring close quarters and tighter spaces. 

Three minutes is a long time, and not nearly long enough. 

The bell rings and they’re the only ones left in the room, given privacy by _verde_ who don’t need to be told to respect Jango’s privacy. Myles touches his split lip, grins bloodily, and plonks himself down on one of the nearby benches. “You’re a mean bastard,” he chuckles, examining the blood on his fingertips with a morbid curiosity. 

“Shoulda ducked,” Jango says nasally. He fetches a canteen from the rack and drops down next to Myles, offering it first to his friend before taking a long gulp of ice-cold water himself. 

“Didn’t think you could reach,” Myles replies. Jango should kick him just for that. “Now look at you - showing up to your second wedding with a black eye.”

And a broken nose. Jango scrunches his face, relishes in the pain that shoots across it, and entertains himself with thoughts on the exact shade of purple Almec will turn when they land. 

“So,” Myles says, leaning back against the bench, his hands braced behind him, “we gonna talk about it?”

“No,” Jango responds emphatically.

“Hmm. It’s the pretty ones you gotta watch for, I always say.” 

It hurts, but Jango narrows his eyes and glares at him. So much for not talking. 

“Always, huh?”

“He’ll run rings round Almec.”

“He ran rings around me,” Jango points out.

“Yeah he did,” Myles agrees with a slow, thoughtful nod. “Want me to talk to him? Clarify things?”

On the surface, Myles’s offer is benign, but if Jango asks, kriff, if he even so much as _implies_ , Myles will put the fear of death in his _riduur_. His loyalty to Obi-Wan extends only so far as Jango wishes it to. 

“I really don’t. We’ve reached an understanding.”

Myles looks surprised. “You told him about -“

“I told him what he needs to know.”

The sigh Myles lets out is heavy with frustration. “Jango…” This is the closest Myles has ever - will ever - come to pushing him to talk. He holds his tongue out of love for Jango, but the conflict is clear in his expression. “And the _jetiise_?”

Jango swallows painfully. “I gave him my word.” That has to start meaning something. After a moment’s silence, he lifts his chin and catches Myles’s eye. “I need a favor.”

Myles doesn’t hesitate. “Name it.”

“Teach him how to fight. If he’s gonna do kark like this… I can’t-“ 

He can’t let himself care for someone who deliberately places themselves in harm's way, not unless they know how to keep themselves safe. When Obi-Wan stepped into that cell, his heart stopped beating and didn’t start again until he was safe at his side. 

The warm hand that curls around his shoulder squeezes tightly. “It’ll be done,” Myles swears. “Just don’t get mad at me when I mess his face up.”

Jango swallows, already picturing the scowl on Obi-Wan’s face. “Whatever it takes.”


	12. Chapter 12

  
Shmi’s fingers sink into Obi-Wan’s hair and scratch over his sensitive scalp. Hours of wearing heavy braids always leave his head sore and tender, sometimes so much so that combing his hair out after is an exercise in masochism. Free from the heavy confines of his robes and the corset, his hair hanging loose, Obi-Wan leans back into her gentle touch and hums in relief. 

“You’re being reckless, _bhobain_.” She draws her fingers down and presses her thumbs firmly against the base of his skull, easing the ache that stretches down his neck and spine. 

“You know I would never do anything to put you or Oné at risk,” Obi-Wan says.

She drags her thumbs in firm circles with enough pressure to hurt. After an excruciating few moments, the knotted muscle relaxes and the shooting pain that’s been circling his skull eases. “And you know we’re quite capable of taking care of ourselves, yes? Oné is terribly fearsome when pushed.”

Fearsome is certainly one word for it. Oné is scary in the way that only the very gentle can be when pushed to their limits. 

“I know.” It’s easy to laugh but hard to maintain his mirth. “I feel… I liked him, Shmi. Like. I don’t know… I thought… I thought he was a good person.” It seems he can't go five minutes without thoughts of Jango overriding everything else. 

“People are complicated. You can’t just put them into boxes of good or bad. He can be both.”

“It upset him,” Obi-Wan says softly-, “that I was afraid of him.”

“Then he should have thought about that before threatening you.” Jango has lost significant favor in Shmi’s eyes, and she is slow to forgive. 

“He was afraid. He told me that the Jedi killed his men at Galidraan.”

“That’s what happens in battle, is it not? If you raise a weapon you must expect to be shot at.” After parting his hair down the middle, she starts the slow task of braiding three strands around a long band of black brocade. The hardest part of any of the styles he wears is always the first few inches. Twisting over five feet of thick, heavy hair into place is time-consuming, so once she’s laid the first few rows he takes over, freeing her up to begin on the other side. “What does the Count say?”

The honest concern that had brushed against Obi-Wan’s mind when Dooku bid him farewell is easy to recall. “He says that Jango is dangerous.”

“I think that’s probably a fair assessment,” she replies. “And all the more reason to be careful.”

“It would help if I knew anything about what happened to him.” Jango’s fear is honest and true, but the Jedi aren’t butchers and they certainly aren’t capable of the kind of massacre Jango has implied. He believes Jango, but he also believes in the Jedi. Without further input, it’s impossible to truly know where to place his trust. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Shmi continues, her gaze fixed carefully on her work and not on Obi-Wan’s reflection. “We can’t control the things that are done to us, but we can choose how we return that hurt to the world.”

“Fear paves the way to the Dark Side,” Obi-Wan agrees. You don’t have to be a Jedi for that to be true. 

There’s a weight to the silence that falls between them that, while not uncomfortable, still hangs oppressively in the air. They both have their own demons to contend with, things rarely spoken between them but still understood. 

“What will you do?” Despite starting the second braid while he’s halfway through the first, she still finishes her side before he does, swatting him on the knuckles until he lets her take over again. 

“About?”

“All of it,” Shmi says pointedly. 

“Well,” Obi-Wan sighs heavily, “my most pressing concern is getting through the next few hours without revealing any more about myself than is necessary.”

“That he wants you to be able to defend yourself is a good thing, I suppose.”

“But?” He knows her well enough to know one is coming.

“But what if this is just a ploy? What if he suspects something?”

“Jango knows I’m not quite as sheltered and delicate as he’s been presuming.” Obi-Wan points out reasonably. 

Shmi nods a little, but doesn’t look any less worried. “That’s a far cry from seeing you fight.”

“It’s not unheard of for Royals to be trained in combat. And given what little Jango does know about the Nexus he should understand that I wanted to learn how to protect myself.” Her hand has settled on his shoulder. He reaches up and squeezes it gently, their eyes meeting in the reflections of the mirror. “Please don’t worry. I won’t do anything that would put you or Oné at risk.”

“We’re not the ones they want to kill,” Shmi says quietly. “I keep thinking of Ani. In my heart he’s still my baby, but if he’s going to be a padawan soon…”

“He’s a bright boy, Shmi, and he’s strong in the Force.” He can’t promise her Anakin will never be in danger - such is the life of a Jedi - but he has every faith the child will only grow from strength to strength. He glowed in the Force as an infant and there are times Obi-Wan thinks he can still feel the warmth of his presence, even years later and lightyears apart. 

“If something happened to him, I wouldn’t even know.” Her anguish is quiet, but no less heartfelt. 

“Do you regret it?” Obi-Wan aches as he asks. She gave Anakin to the Jedi on his urging. Sometimes even _he_ regrets it. 

Shmi’s smile is soft and a little pained. “I can't regret making the best choice for his future,” she says carefully, “but I do miss him. And I worry.”

“I know,” Obi-Wan understands. “But he _will_ be fine.” Especially if Dooku does end up taking him as an apprentice. Obi-Wan knows better than most how kind the old Master can be, for all his stern nature. Dooku doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is, and he lays out his expectations clearly and concisely. He’s never forced Obi-Wan to guess his motivations, never abandoned him to dizzy spirals of anxiety and self-doubt. Dooku will be a good Master to Anakin, and Anakin a good Padawan. 

“Will you?” Shmi finishes one task and starts to twist both braids around each other. It can take upwards of an hour to properly pin everything in place once his hair is braided, but his usual practice of distracting himself with work isn’t going to cut it today. 

Jango is a puzzle he can’t even begin to understand, and that level of uncertainty doesn’t sit well with him. Oh, he knows he finds Jango attractive, feels drawn to him in ways that are far more intense than he’s comfortable with, but the rest… it’s hard to trust a man who so quickly turns to anger. Jango’s rage might flare quickly and burn brightly, but at the heart of it is something very cold. 

“We’ll be dropping the Jedi off in another ten hours,” Obi-Wan says firmly. He does believe Jango will honor their agreement that far. “I just need to give him something else to focus on in the meantime.”

“Without turning his brain into soup,” Shmi adds. "Or getting yourself killed."

“Yes. I should probably avoid both.”

Shmi pauses and catches his eye in the mirror once more. “Just be careful.”

Obi-Wan takes her hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. “I’m always careful.”

The snort she makes in response is by far the least impressed thing he’s ever heard from her. 

* * *

  
Jango isn’t sure what he expects Obi-Wan to actually wear when he arrives in the Salle, but a sleek black body glove doesn’t even make the top ten in his list of considerations. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Obi-Wan says pleasantly, “but my wardrobe is hardly equipped for this kind of activity.” His hair has been fastened up in another complicated braid, this time with thick bands of black fabric woven through it. It’s fastened tightly, and as practical as hair as long as Obi-Wan’s will ever be in a fight. That, and the outfit, might have him passing for another _verde_. His face, however, is as heavily painted as ever, his forehead the same red as his hair, gradually fading to stark white. It’s not delicate or elaborate like it often is, falling closer to unnerving than alluring. “Jango?”

Jango was twelve by the time Myles figured out how kriffing dumb he gets around someone he likes, so his response to Jango’s open-mouthed speechlessness is simply to roll his eyes dramatically and sweep his arm out towards the mats. 

“You’re fine,” Myles says kindly. 

Okay but has Jango ever really considered how kriffing _indecent_ body gloves actually are? He must’ve, surely. Not with Myles, obviously, or the _verde_ he trained with, or… this _can’t_ be the first time he’s thought about it. It can’t be. 

“Don’t worry about him,” Myles says. “He’s probably concussed.”

Obi-Wan looks at Jango in alarm. “ _What_?” 

“Not literally concussed. He’s fine. Stand there for me.” He points at the center of the mat and waits while Obi-Wan moves into place. 

Jango gives himself a good shake. Focus, Fett. This is why he wants Myles to be the one to teach Obi-Wan how to fight. Aside from being the best instructor Jango knows, he won’t let the curves of Obi-Wan’s calves distract him from his duty. 

“So let’s start with the basics,” Myles says. He walks slowly around his student, his shoulders relaxed and his hands held loosely behind his back. Jango puts himself in his position and tries to examine Obi-Wan the way he would any other _verde_. 

Average height. Not without muscle, but leaning more towards slender than well built. A frame built more for speed and dexterity than endurance or absorbing hits. Blaster work is an obvious choice for him, and the sooner Jango can get him fitted for _beskar’gam_ , the better. Getting him to wear it might be another matter, but there’s no reason he can’t approach Shmi about working at least a chest plate into the outfits he wears for state functions.

“Have you had any combat training?” Myles asks.

“I’ve held a blaster before,” Obi-Wan nods. 

“Yeah? Good shot?”

“I’ve never had any complaints.” Well, that’s ominous. 

“Good. We’ll move on to that later. What about hand to hand?”

He hesitates, his gaze darting nervously towards Jango. “I-“

It’s entirely possible that his experience with the slavers is the only exposure Obi-Wan has ever had to violence. Jango actually hopes it is, even if it means that this might be forcing unwanted memories to the surface. “You’re safe here,” he assures his _riduur_. “Myles isn’t going to hurt you, he just needs to know where to start.”

Myles picks up on both Obi-Wan’s visible anxiety and Jango’s gentle reassurance and stops his pacing. He’s a big man, and he forgets how intimidating he can be. “I just want to make sure you know how to protect yourself if you have to.”

Obi-Wan swallows. “Of course.”

“Make a fist for me,” Myles instructs. Obi-Wan obeys, letting Myles nudge him into a more balanced stance. “Good. Lift your elbows, yeah, like that - no, don’t tuck your thumb in.” Obi-Wan follows each of Myles’s instructions without comment. “Okay, good. Now, try stop me attacking you.” It’s funny that Myles thinks for a second that he isn’t utterly terrifying. What does he expect Obi-Wan to do? Kick him in the shins?

“What if I hurt you?” Obi-Wan asks, chewing on his bottom lip. It’s white under the paint, and Jango misses the flush of color that outlines the perfect bow of his mouth. 

Myles laughs. “You won’t. Just do your best.”

Jango edges further off his seat and rests his elbows on his knees, ready to push up onto his feet and put a stop to things if Obi-Wan gets too upset or afraid. Jango isn’t completely insensitive to what they are doing: he wants Obi-Wan prepared to defend himself, but he’s no intention of traumatizing him in the process. 

“Alright,” Obi-Wan says warily. He doesn’t move into any of the positions Myles showed him, just stays still and fawnlike. Jango’s fingers curl into his knees. 

Myles moves with only a fraction of his usual speed, clearly broadcasting his attack and giving Obi-Wan a chance to position a defense. For a moment, the sheer bulk of his wide shoulders blocks Obi-Wan from sight.

A second later, Myles is on the floor, clutching his throat. 

Jango launches himself to his feet so quickly he overturns the bench he’s sitting on. 

“Stars!” Obi-Wan exclaims, dropping to his knees next to Myles. “I’m so sorry!”

Jango crashes down next to them both with none of Obi-Wan’s grace. “What happened.”

“I think I hit him!”

“Oh, you definitely hit him,” Jango shakes his head, stunned. He braces a hand on Myles’s shoulder and tries to understand exactly what’s happened. Myles is wheezing, his chest rising and falling as he takes in great, heaving gulps. Jango has to swat his hand away to see his throat and quickly works triage - nothing broken, nothing too compromised, but he comms for a _baar’ur_ regardless, just in case, ignoring Myles’s halfhearted glare. 

“I’m really so, so sorry,” Obi-Wan says, patting Myles’s arm awkwardly. “I think I missed.”

“What were you aiming for?” Jango asks, morbidly curious.

“His face?”

“Hmm.” Well, he definitely missed, that’s for sure. Myles, still wheezing, flashes Obi-Wan an approving hand signal and tries to grin. “That’s what you get for being a kriffing giant,” Jango chuckles, his worry rapidly draining away, only to be replaced by amusement. “No one can reach your ugly mug.”

“Jango!” Obi-Wan exclaims, horrified. “Myles, I really am-“

“Stop apologizing, _cyar_ ,” Jango laughs, rocking back to rest on his heels. He smacks Myles hard on the shoulder. “You are never living this down.”

“Don’t,” Myles wheezes, “tell Kal.”

“Oh, I am absolutely telling Kal!”

“Should I get you some water?” Obi-Wan frets. “Oh, or a cushion?” Myles’s scowl could glow in the dark. The _baar’ur_ haven’t long been finished checking in on the _jetii_ , so look particularly murderous when then storm into the salle. “Blanket?” Obi-Wan asks, his bottom lip bitten and worried between his teeth. 

“Do I even want to ask?” _Baar’re_ Djar asks with an air of despair. 

“Don’t,” Myles repeats himself, “tell Kal!”

And with that baleful scowl, he dropkicks Jango right over the edge of his self-control and into a crippling bout of hysterical laughter. 

“Oh dear,” Obi-Wan says as he doubles over clutching his ribs, fresh tears of joy streaming down his cheeks every time he catches a glimpse of Myles’s attempts to shoo the medics away. “Lesson over?”


	13. Chapter 13

They drop the _jetiise_ off with little fanfare. Obi-Wan pays consideration to Jango’s sanity by staying in his suite and sending Shmi in his place to watch as the two women are handed over to very confused controllers on Charros IV’s orbital docking station. The young one is awake and in better shape than when she arrived, quiet and serious, but sensible enough to keep her mouth shut when her Master, without a touch of irony, thanks Jango for his aid and hospitality. He keeps his expression hidden behind his helmet, nods his head, and sends word to the bridge to put as much distance between them and Charros IV as physically possible. 

Then, itching with anxiety, he goes to the one place he knows will be quiet at this time of the cycle. 

He’s tried fighting his way through his anger and fear, now it's time to take a different approach. 

He’s been in the galley for nearly two hours when Obi-Wan steps out of the shadows. 

“Expert marksman, cunning warrior, savvy politician… and amateur baker?” Tonight, his face is a twilight of navy blue swirls and sparkling stars, his lashes long and his lips awash with molten gold. He looks like he belongs in a museum, carefully separated from the world so that the artistry of his being might be preserved. Beautiful, but aloof. 

The oven beeps angrily and Jango curses, his budding infatuation temporarily set aside in order to rescue his creation. 

“Who are you calling an amateur?” He huffs, grabbing the hot metal tray with only a thin protective glove. “My recipe is famous: it’s caused fights.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrow climbs. “That good?”

“Yep,” Jango says proudly. He probes the center of the tray, testing the bake.

“It certainly smells good,” Obi-Wan compliments, “what is it?”

Jango’s satisfied. It’s always hit and miss when using a new oven, but this has turned out well. “ _Uj'alayi_. It’s sweet. Got a bit of a kick, but it won’t blow the back of your head off. Figured it might be a good way to introduce you to the kind of food we eat back home.” A glob of scalding hot syrup drips over the edge of the tin and lands on his thumb. He shoves it in his mouth and licks it off without second thought. 

“You baked for me?” Behind the unfathomable mask of paint, Obi-Wan’s eyes are wide. 

“I’m hardly gonna let you starve, am I?” They eat like kriffing birds on Stewjon as it is. 

“No, no, of course,” Obi-Wan says, uncharacteristically flustered, “I just…I didn’t expect…”

“I wasn’t always _Mand’alor_ ,” Jango takes pity on him. There’s something endearing in seeing him so off-balance. “I can cook. I can even do my own laundry.”

“Well that _is_ something,” Obi-Wan chuckles. “I don’t think I’ve ever done laundry in my life.” Of course he hasn’t. He has an army of servants and droids to do all that for him. Jango is honestly surprised he’s only brought Shmi and Oné: given Stewjoni’s love of opulence, he was half expecting to have to build an extension on the palace just to house the Prince’s entourage. “And I have it under good authority that I am an atrocious cook.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Jango grins. “So what brings you to the galley if you can’t cook?” He leaves the ‘in the middle of the night’ unspoken. There technically is no night in space, and he gets the feeling Obi-Wan will only remind him of that if questioned. It's entirely possible his reasons for being awake so late - or so early - are similar to Jango’s own. 

“I skipped late-meal,” Obi-Wan admits. “I didn’t want to trouble anyone -“

“Or get _in_ trouble?” Jango asks, imagining Shmi might have something to say about that.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “Yes, alright,” he huffs, throwing Jango a halfhearted glare. “I hope you don’t mind?”

There’s something about his hesitance that doesn’t sit right with Jango. “I wouldn’t actually lock you in your room,” he says softly. “I know I said-“ threatened. To lock him up - to tie him up - kriffing hells… “I’m sorry. You’re right: my behavior has been dishonorable.” If not with the _jetii_ , then with his _riduur_. Even if Obi-Wan had known about Galidraan, he doesn’t know Jango, not really. Not yet. Any reason he has to trust Jango must be earned, not simply demanded. 

“I think,” Obi-Wan says quietly, “that perhaps we both handled things poorly.” It’s maybe not so hard to read him as Jango first thought. The paint, the clothes, they mask a lot, make it hard to see what’s below the surface. Now Jango’s had time to think, now the _jetiise_ are off his ship and he doesn’t have to battle the constant instinct to shoot anything that moves in his peripheral vision, he’s able to properly assess the things he’s learned. 

However it presented itself, and however it made Jango feel, Obi-Wan’s shown his spine, and it's as hard as beskar. He didn’t merely challenge Jango’s authority. When faced with what he perceived as an injustice, he didn’t allow Jango’s threat - or the implicit threat of a ship full of _verde_ who follow his command - to intimidate him. Without context, that might simply be a matter of Obi-Wan’s arrogance and privilege: a prince who has never been denied a thing in his life. 

With context, with the unexpected vulnerability he exposed to Jango, that expectation of obedience becomes defiance. 

Not a temper tantrum, but a taunt. 

And when followed by that spectacularly manipulative little display in the brig? 

Jango doesn’t have to like his methods to admire the way they’re implemented. 

Forget the fear that he might grow bored any time soon. On Mandalore, the most dangerous creatures are often the most beautiful. If the same is true on Stewjon, it’ll be Obi-Wan who gets bored. 

“We usually eat this cold,” Jango says, gesturing at the uj cake, “but take a seat.” 

Obi-Wan smiles wide enough to show teeth. “Should I get us something to drink?”

“Your _buir_ sent us off with some of that fizzy wine you like,” Jango says, focusing on the cake. It’s a lot easier to cut slices of _uj'alayi_ when it’s cooled and the syrup is firmer, but so long as he hides the sticky evidence of their snack he won’t get chased out of the galley by any of the cooks in the morning. Cutting two pieces, he pulls plates down from the storage rack, then goes to rummage in the huge walk-in refrige unit in search of - “Ha!” 

“Is that a good ‘ha’?” Obi-Wan calls through the door. 

Jango snags the sealed tub of thick blue cream from one of the chilled shelves and makes his escape back to the galley. “Oh yeah. You’re gonna love this.”

Obi-Wan hasn’t just found the crate of wine, but he’s unearthed two glasses - presumably from another rack - and a sunstone light - kriff knows where that’s come from - and has set them up a little picnic spot on the large island in the middle of the galley. 

There’s a split second of panic when Jango pauses to wonder if this isn’t becoming a lot more intimate - and dare he say _romantic_ \- than expected, but ultimately he decides he doesn’t care if it is. Obi-Wan needs to eat something, and Jango is a kriffing good cook, so…

“It really does smell incredible,” Obi-Wan says happily. There aren’t any stools or benches in the galley, so he looks around with a mischievous little expression, then neatly jumps up to sit on the island. His beaded gown trails like a waterfall over the side of the counter, shimmering with thousands of tiny white stones that twinkle like twilight. 

Jango sets the two portions of cake down between them while Obi-Wan pours the wine, then with his own nervous check to be certain they aren’t being spied on by a homicidal chef, he climbs up to sit cross-legged on the counter. 

The lid lifts off the tub of cream with a satisfying pop, revealing stiff mounds of thick whipped blue cream. Jango neatly arranges a spoonful on each piece of cake, then hands Obi-Wan a fork. 

The gown Obi-Wan wears has sleeves that brush the ground if he doesn’t keep his arms neatly horizontal to the floor. In order to eat without them dragging across the plate, Obi-Wan pushes them back to his elbows. 

Maybe because he’s not been expecting company or maybe because it’s late, but the patterns painted on the back of his hands - the ones that usually adorn his whole arm if there’s any chance of them being seen in public - extend no higher than his wrists. 

Not including the harrowing moment he showed Jango his scars, this is the first time Jango has seen his bare skin. The simple eroticism of the gesture hits him right in the chest and only grows worse when Obi-Wan takes a mouthful of sticky cake and thick blue cream and follows through with a groan of satisfaction than is downright kriffing indecent. 

Obi-Wan seems to realize as much. He raises his other hand to his mouth and hides behind his fingers as he finishes chewing. The paint on his face is too thick and too dark to tell if he’s blushing.

Feeling a little like a proud tooka showing off its new nest, Jango straightens up and fights the urge to preen in satisfaction. “You like?”

“Jango, that’s amazing!”

“Told you I can cook.”

“I never doubted you!” He takes another bite without further prompting and is halfway through before Jango decides he should probably stop staring and start eating his own slice. 

The minutes pass in companionable silence, punctuated only by the soft tinkling of glasses and the gentle scrape of utensils. 

“Just don’t tell Myles you got the first slice,” Jango says, setting down his fork after finishing the last bite. Obi-Wan refills their glasses, his own plate empty. 

“No?”

Jango leans forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. “He’s been my chief taster since we were _ade_.”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan chuckles. “So that’s two strikes against me?”

“Oh, he’ll take this far more personally than you punching him in the throat,” Jango says with a fond bark of laughter. 

“I do feel terrible…” Obi-Wan's gaze skirts to one side, troubled. 

“Don’t,” Jango is firm. “All I care about is that you can protect yourself. That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but we’ll try again.”

Obi-Wan lowers his glass and studies him curiously. “It really means that much to you?”

How exactly can Jango explain that the sight of him beside that _jetii_ had filled him with such a cold, uncontrollable terror? How does he explain that the thought of Obi-Wan in harm has quickly become one of the few fears that haven’t been burnt out of him? _Without_ sounding either crazy or obsessive. 

“Yeah,” he says simply, “it does.”

Obi-Wan’s fingers are usually fairly cool, but they’re actually cold when they curl over Jango’s and gently squeeze. “I think you’d keep me safe, Jango Fett,” he says, his voice soft and not quite teasing. 

Jango wraps his other hand over Obi-Wan’s and gently tries to rub some warmth into chilled skin. It is cold in the galley, but he’s hardly noticed until now. The years after Galidraan have rather hardened him to the chill of space. 

“With my life,” he vows.

“I’d rather you didn’t have to die,” Obi-Wan shakes his head, perturbed. He hasn’t pulled back, seemingly content to let Jango warm him. 

“Just keep punching Myles and it won’t be an issue.”

The stirrings of worry in Obi-Wan’s eyes fade away, embarrassment quickly taking over. “Poor Myles…”

“Is never going to hear the end of it,” Jango laughs. 

“You’re a terrible friend,” Obi-Wan scolds him, a wicked curl of amusement hiding in the corners of his smile. 

“And you are full of surprises,” Jango admits. “I thought I could read you. Kriff, I thought I had you all figured out.”

“Just a pretty face?” Obi-Wan lifts an eyebrow. Not condemning, but gently teasing. 

“Oh, you know you’re beautiful,” Jango says wryly. He’d have to be a truly oblivious man to not know, and from everything Jango has seen, Obi-Wan is possibly _too_ observant.

Something wary starts to brew dark in the depths of his eyes. “So I’ve been told.”

“For some people… that would be enough,” Jango tries to be as tactful as he knows how. 

Whatever Obi-Wan is looking for in Jango’s expression, it takes an eternity for him to find before eventually, he says, “But not you.”

He’s holding Obi-Wan’s hand in his lap, the space between them shrinking with every passing second. “No,” Jango swallows roughly, “not me.”

At this angle they are the same height, and Jango is close enough to count the tiny stars painted like freckles over Obi-Wan’s cheeks. His lashes, long and dusted a sparkling black, cast shadows on his cheeks as his gaze narrows on Jango’s lips. His own, glossy and golden and looking so inviting, part. “And what does Jango Fett want?” His breath is hot against Jango’s cheek. His fingers, still laced with Jango’s own. 

“I want…” he wants Obi-Wan to make that sound again. The one he made at the first taste of spice, and the softer, more desperate sound he made the night when Jango kissed him. 

He wants to kiss Obi-Wan again. Wants to know if he tastes sweet like _uj'alayi_ and if his lips are really as smooth as they look. He has Obi-Wan’s hand in his lap, but he wants more. He wants _Obi-Wan_ in his lap. Wants to feel the heat of their thighs pressing together. He wants to put his hands on Obi-Wan’s waist again, only this time…

He _wants._

Obi-Wan’s eyes are closed now. He’s leaning in to bridge the gap between them, his balance given over to Jango, who holds his hand like it’s something precious and takes pride in the fact that it’s warmed to his touch. 

“Yes?”

“I want-“ Jango lifts one hand to curl around the back of Obi-Wan’s neck, drawing him closer even as he leans in. The fingers that are hooked around Obi-Wan’s brush over his pulse point; his heart is hammering just as rapidly as Jango’s, and just a breath closer -

“You’ve been baking?” Myles's furious yelp of indignation startles them both so sharply that Obi-Wan nearly pitches face-first into Jango’s arms. Jango’s able to steady him quickly, dropping his hand to brace his elbows instead.

“Can I help you, _Alor’aan_?” It’s less of a question, more of a threat. One Jango growls across the galley, his heart pounding and his head swimming from the abrupt change in tone. 

And it goes sailing right over Myles’s head. “Yeah, you can! You can tell me why you were baking without my much-needed supervision and taste testing? What if someone poisoned the ingredients, huh?”

“I’d still be having a good evening,” Jango mutters. Short of shooting Myles - which is so very tempting right now - Jango isn’t sure how exactly to convey the ‘go the kriff away’ message that’s clearly failing to find a home in his friend’s brain. 

Obi-Wan smothers a laugh behind his sleeve, then clears his throat. “Good evening, Myles,” he says politely. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

“I would be,” Myles huffs, utterly oblivious. “If I hadn’t just been stabbed in the back by my oldest friend.” He points at the cooling uj cake and its obvious missing slices, then jabs over his shoulder. “In the _back_!”

“I’m married now you kriffing idiot! You’re not first in line for cake!”

Myles crosses his arms over his chest and juts his chin out in a sulk. “That was never part of our agreement!”

 _“What agreement?_ ” Jango demands, flailing his arm in an awkward gesture of ‘please kindly go the kriff away before I stab you’. “There was no-“

Obi-Wan leans forward and presses a sweet, fleeting little kiss to the corner of Jango’s mouth. “Thank you for this,” he says, his eyes sparkling. Then he gracefully hops off the counter, straightens his sleeves, and gently inclines his head. “Good night, Jango. Myles.”

Which is roughly the time that Myles - General of the most elite military might Mandalore has known in centuries, seasoned warrior and cunning strategist - finally clues the kriff into the fact that he’s interrupted more than just Jango’s baking-related treachery. 

“Er… Highness,” he stammers, bowing low in a shameful attempt at overcompensation. When Obi-Wan passes, he looks up at Jango, his eyes wide with remorse. 

Jango says nothing. He doesn’t move. He barely breathes. 

He waits long enough to be certain that Obi-Wan will be well on his way back to his suite. Then slowly rises from the counter. 

Myles takes a step back, his hands raised placatingly. “Now, Jango, wait a-“

“Run,” Jango warns him. 

“W-what?”

“If I catch you,” Jango says, each word carefully enunciated, _“I will kriffing kill you_.”

They both have excellent reflexes. Myles just starts to ask, “Can I get cake first?”

Before Jango launches himself across the galley, vaulting clean over the counter between them, a war cry on his lips.


	14. Chapter 14

Oné finishes the last touch of paint, dabbing tiny onyx stones to the inner corners of Obi-Wan’s eyes. With that done, Obi-Wan can open his eyes and gets a good look at the deep frown distorting the neat amethyst patterns on Oné’s face. 

“What’s wrong? Are you having second thoughts?” The paint on the back of his hands is still drying, stopping him from reaching up and laying a comforting hand on his friend’s arm. After his mortifying fiasco in the galley, Oné has been careful to paint all the way up past his elbows. A black web of diamond geometric shapes, the center of each space filled with more of the tiny black crystals. It’s a painfully detailed look, one that has been designed to unite Stewjoni opulence and attention to detail with Mandalore’s more… utilitarian sensibilities. 

“And third. And forth,” Oné says, his lips pursed. “Multiple thoughts on all the ways we can explain to your _grādh_ just how thin the ice he’s skating on really is.” Shmi lets out a soft sound of agreement from behind Obi-Wan’s back. “See? I’m not on my own here.”

“I know you’re worried,” Obi-Wan says, knowing that by staying as still as possible he is showing far more care for them both than he would be if he attempted to turn and embrace them. “But really, I don’t think you have to be. He’s been nothing but kind. I showed him some of my scars, and I’ve seen some of his. It’s a work in progress, that’s all.”

Oné continues to look deeply unhappy. “It’s not just him. I’ve heard his men talk - they don’t know I can understand them.”

“It’s rare we hear good things when we eavesdrop,” Shmi points out wryly. 

Oné rolls his eyes and pouts. “Yes, well, let’s just say it was all very disrespectful. And _very_ crude!”

Obi-Wan can’t help the sigh he lets out. "I will speak to Jango." This has always been a possible issue to contend with. Stewjoni’s customs are strange to most and absurd to many. Mandalorians are eminently practical people with little time for frivolity or weakness. They no doubt find Shmi and Oné’s elaborate purple robes to be excessive, let alone the things Obi-Wan wears. he'll protect them from gossip as much as he can, but still, he’s prepared to be the butt of Mandalorian jokes. He even understands them to some extent and only has to remember how he’d felt when first coming to Corvie. 

Shmi hadn’t been his handmaid yet, nor had he been assigned Oné as a Painter. The three palace servants expected to care for him had been patient and kind, but he still remembers crying the first time they dressed him for a state meal. He’d felt trapped by the layers of fabric and smothered by the corsets, cooed at and coddled for things he’d never once paid any attention to, and forced to suppress the few talents he had any pride in. His father hadn’t cared how high he could jump or how fast he could run, just that Obi-Wan scrubbed up a sparkling jewel, a pretty novelty for the Court. One who was never supposed to last as long as he has. 

"I just don't want them being cruel to you," Oné says sadly. 

“That’s what our armor is for,” Obi-Wan tells him, his face unrecognizable behind the paint. The black web of shapes extends beyond the high collar of his gown to merge seamlessly with the headdress Shmi has fastened into his hair. Long, glistening shards of obsidian form a crown that drips with the same molten gold that lines his eyes and lips. It tips each of his fingernails and forms the panels of his gown. A thousand shards of black and gold, held together with a web of finely spun silk threads. Unlike most of his outfits, he wears the corset on the outside of this one - a solid gold band, made to measure, made to shrink his waist waspishly and give the illusion of armor. 

He knows what he looks like. He can even take a guess as to Jango’s reaction. 

Arriving on Mandalore in the colors of justice and vengeance, in an outfit designed to highlight everything forced and unnatural in so much of Stewjon’s aesthetics… it’s a risk. A calculated one. One stacked up against everything he knows of the major political powers on Mandalore. 

He cannot afford to appear weak. To do so invites attempts at manipulation or abuse from any who seek to undermine Jango’s power. Until Obi-Wan has time to establish his own position, it’s vital he plays to the few strengths he has. 

And since his best, and ironically most effective, chance at winning their respect is denied to him, a more subtle approach must be taken. 

If you can count anything he wears these days as ‘subtle’. 

They will look. And they will speculate. They will form their opinions on him long before he gets the chance to utter his first words. 

And while he was keen to show Jango the soft, hopeful start to their union with pastel silks and blossoms, songbirds and satin, the _Mando’ade_ don’t need to be wooed with the same delicate hand. 

As they come into orbit over Sundari, Jango, Myles and a small honor guard arrive to collect him from his rooms. 

The door opens, and they all stare. 

“Well, I feel underdressed,” Myles mutters, his eyes wide and bruised. He and Jango are the highest-ranking figures in Mandalorian politics, respected and feared in equal measure, so naturally, the entire ship knows they spent an evening running around like children, death threats bouncing off the walls. 

Those bruises have their echoes on Jango’s face, faint but still noticeable. He’ll think nothing of arriving with the signs of a fight etched on his skin, and for that reason alone Obi-Wan clutches the shield his gilded armor provides and holds it tight. 

To do otherwise, to admit that he wants nothing more than to stand at Jango’s side as a man and nothing more… to admit that he could happily live out the rest of his life with only Jango’s gaze upon him and no one else’s…

Far too dangerous. For both of them. 

So he’ll do what his people have done since they first laid down their weapons and shrouded themselves in art and beauty and pain: he’ll command his own narrative. 

If they’re going to stare, then they’ll stare for the reasons he wants them to. 

Jango clears his throat. Does he want to kiss Obi-Wan now like he so clearly did the other night? “Highness,” he says and offers Obi-Wan his hand. 

“ _Alor_.”

He’s taller than Jango without the headdress. With it, he gives the illusion of being closer to Myles’s height. The helmet of every commando they pass tilts a little in their direction, the control and focus of even the most dedicated soldier drawn on by unspoken command. 

They’ll be taking it all it - the gown, the headdress, the colors - and hopefully overlooking the fact that beneath the paint his skin is white and his hands tremble faintly. 

When they step off the cruiser, there is no going back. Mandalore is his home now.

Let's see how long it takes him to outstay his welcome in this one. 

* * *

Jango has a problem. 

Two, actually. The first being that his _riduur_ is possibly about to murder him and take his throne. The second being that the _Mando’ade_ will absolutely let him. 

Kriff, Jango isn’t going to put up a fright, if it comes to it. If Obi-Wan wants to stab him in the chest, Jango might actually thank him. 

After the sheer ridiculousness of his wedding attire, the soft, delicate fabrics of his gowns on Stewjon, and the delicate, artistic gowns while they have traveled, Jango’s honestly not put much thought into what Obi-Wan might choose to wear to take his first steps in Sundari. If anything, he’s been prepared to surreptitiously shoot anyone who looked at him in his pretty, impractical clothes and even dared to think anything untoward. 

He’s in no way been expecting Obi-Wan to come out looking like he’ll cut the heart out of anyone who glances at him wrong. It’s brilliant, really. Until Myles has had time to properly train him to protect himself, dressing in a way that suggests he dismembers people for fun will go a long way to ward off all but the most dedicated of aggressors. 

The color choice is… interesting. He doesn’t know if Obi-Wan understands the significance of the choices he’s made, but the speculation will be rife. 

“Was it something I said?” He tries to joke, leading the way down to the docking bay. The cuffs of Obi-Wan’s sleeves are solid and heavy, golden and smooth. They give him the illusion of stability to match the graceful, steady gait of his walk. His hand is in Jango’s though, frigid and trembling. Jango can’t warm them as he did before, so he holds on tighter. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be right by your side the whole time.”

“I know,” Obi-Wan says, his eyes rimmed with black and gold, cold and fractious and wary. For the first time in this whole process, Obi-Wan looks nervous. He hides it well, better than with beskar, even, or maybe Jango is getting better at reading him? 

“Consider this my blanket instruction to stab anyone you feel like,” he says, wanting so badly to thaw the veil of frost that’s crept over his _riduur_. 

Obi-Wan’s gilded eyebrow climbs. “Anyone?”

“Especially Myles,” Jango says, still one hundred percent happy to throw his friend under the first passing landship. “Even me, if it’d make you feel better.”

“Thank you, Jango,” Obi-Wan whispers. “You’re very kind.”

“Oh yeah,” Myles pipes up. “You’re _all_ heart.” 

And just like that, the blank mask that is Obi-Wan’s face cracks. He smiles, and it’s like sunshine on a cold morning. 

Myles is definitely getting thrown under something. 

“Don’t worry, Highness,” Myles then says, taking his position on Jango’s right. He’d usually be on Jango’s left, but with Obi-Wan now occupying that position, he falls easily into a new formation. “Everyone on the Clan Council is a miserable shleb - especially Kal - but they’ll be on their best behavior for at least a month and by that time Jango will have killed at least three of them off.”

“Especially Kal?” Jango asks, not bothering to hide his smirk. He and Skirata don’t particularly get along, but their relationship is positively cozy when stacked up against Myles’s relationship with Kal. Jango and Myles will try to kill each other affectionately. Kal and Myles come to blows far more frequently and with far less goodwill. 

“I’d never ask you for anything ever again,” Myles says breathlessly. 

“I’m looking forward to meeting him,” Obi-Wan chuckles. Through the viewport, they get their first proper look at the domed city of Sundari. Jango has always found it beautiful, but he wonders what Obi-Wan, who has lived for so long in a world rich with plant life, will make of the industrial glass, durasteel, and beskar city. He watches his _riduur_ carefully, his eyes drawn to the hollow of his throat that bobs when he swallows. The things his face hides, his body reveals one way or another.   
“Will Pre Viszla be joining us?” 

“Him, you can totally shoot,” Myles grumbles. 

Jango tightens his grip on Obi-Wan’s hand and draws him in closer. “Not if you don’t want him to.”

“Isn’t he a Clan leader?” Myles and Jango both grunt. “So you can’t just kick him out because I ask you to.” He’s smiling again, and that’s all Jango wants for him. 

“Sure I can,” Jango says. 

“He has the Darksaber,” Myles nods. 

“I have the Darksaber,” Jango agrees. 

“Forget I asked,” Obi-Wan says, rolling his eyes at the both of them. “I was merely curious.”

He might be happy to let it drop, but Jango isn’t. He glances at Myles, who returns the look with a small nod. 

As the cruiser touches down, smooth and silent, Jango raises his _buy’ce_ and fastens it in place. 

They make a pair, Obi-Wan looking like a deity awaiting a blood sacrifice and Jango in armor that’s seen more of war than anyone his age should really lay claim to. 

The doors slide open and the boarding ramp descends. “You ready?” Jango asks.

Obi-Wan nods. “I am.”

“Welcome to Mandalore.” 


	15. Chapter 15

There’s something strangely comforting about Sundari City. Corvie is abundant with life, rich with the Force and with life, but for all that Obi-Wan spent most of his life in the Temple, he did grow up on Coruscant. The cities on Stewjon are relatively small in population, their sentience a gentle hum in the back of his mind, but there are more people in Sundari alone than there are in Stewjon’s five biggest cities. 

The initial impact of so many minds knocks him a little off-balance, which in turn sees Jango step in closer until the cool line of his armor presses against Obi-Wan’s arm, grounding and solid. He takes a breath, lets the wave of emotion wash over him, and sinks into the warm buzz of Life. 

Oh. This is _nice_. 

Sundari, unlike Corvie, has flight zones actually adjacent to the palace, so while there is a landing party waiting to greet them it’s nothing like the spectacle Jango had arrived to. Another man might take everything shown to him on Corvie as a challenge to compete, but if it even occurs to Jango, Obi-Wan can’t tell. 

It’s hard to interpret the few emotions Obi-Wan can feel from him behind the armor, and he’s not rude enough to pry. If anything, he seems tense. Wary. They all do - Myles and the Commandos. The city was once a war zone, the site of so much suffering and strife. It heals, as all things heal, but the memories linger for those who lived them. 

As soon as he can, Obi-Wan wants to explore. The people are what make a city, and if he is to care for this one he must know them as well as he can. Young and old, rich and poor, soldier and civilian. He has learned from his mistake on Melida/Daan. One perspective, one objective, cannot be enough. 

As they approach the group waiting for them, one man steps forward. He’s a tall, pale man with white-blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Unlike most of his companions, he doesn’t wear armor but the robes of office. A politician, then. He bows deeply. “ _Mand’alor,_ ” he greets Jango, then turns his head towards Obi-Wan, no hint of curiosity or confusion at his appearance. A very experienced politician, then. “ _Alor’riduur_. Mandalore welcomes you. I am Prime Minister Almec. I trust your journey wasn’t too uncomfortable?” He asks the question in Basic. 

Obi-Wan responds in kind. “Not at all. Your commandos are to be commended.” He makes no secret of his understanding of _Mando’a_ , but neither is he about to broadcast the information to anyone who doesn’t already know. It’s not a secret he will keep for long, but it’s one that will almost certainly come in useful. 

“The _Mando’akaata_ is a relatively new institution,” Almec nods, “but we take great pride in their professionalism. And that of our _Alor’aan_ , of course.” There’s just a sliver of a beat between the two statements, but it’s enough for Obi-Wan to tell that Almec is lying through his teeth. The war might be over, but the facets of power are still on unsteady ground. 

“Of course,” Obi-Wan echoes. 

Almec turns his attention back to Jango. “Welcome home, _Mand’alor_ ,” he smiles. “You have been missed. When it is convenient, I would request but a minute of your time before the celebration tomorrow.” That’s Jango occupied for the next five hours then. At least. 

Jango says, “Once my _riduur_ is settled I will call for you.” It’s a polite, even friendly, but no less pointed reminder that Almec answers to Jango, not the other way around. 

“Of course.” Almec bows again then gestures to his companions. “If I might introduce you, Your Highness. Our First Lady of the Treasury, Bo-Katan Kryze-“ a woman with sharp, aristocratic features and short, sleek red hair steps forward. She holds her helmet against her hip and bows her head the way a predator might - carefully, and with as little of her neck exposed as possible.

“Your Highness.” Her blue eyes are sharp and she makes no effort to hide the fact that she’s searching out his weaknesses. When Jango tenses, her smile grows. 

“Lady Kryze.” Obi-Wan hasn’t spent the entirety of the trip from Corvie to Sundari shut in his room or arguing with Jango. He’s spoken to most of the Commandos, and they all agree on one thing: if he’s not careful, Bo-Katan has the potential to be a most dangerous adversary. 

Almec ignores all of the unspoken tension and continues. “Our First Secretary of State, Kal Skirata.” While Bo-Katan and Almec have the pale features of the group that call themselves the New Mandalorians, the infamous Kal Skirata is clearly _haat_ _Mando’ad_. His dark eyes are intense and focused, set in a ruggedly handsome but heavily scarred face. 

“I am pleased to meet you, Lord Skirata,” Obi-Wan says. “I’ve heard much about you.”

Kal’s gaze goes right to Myles before flicking back to Obi-Wan. With a deep, wry chuckle, he too bows his head. “All good things, I’m sure, Highness.”

Obi-Wan manages not to smile. Myles is telegraphing his urge to punch Kal in the face so loudly that anyone with even a scrap of Force sensitivity in the sector must be picking up on it. “Nothing but,” Obi-Wan smiles. 

Almec continues. “You’ll meet the rest of Parliament tomorrow, but this is Llats Ward, Head of Palace Security -“ a relatively young man with dimples steps forward and bows far more deeply than any of the politicians. 

“ _Alor’riduur_ ,” he says, straightening up and clapping a closed fist to his chest in salute. 

“-and Isabet Reau. Isabet will be in charge of your security. We’ve also drafted a shortlist of candidates for your secretarial assistant. Until you finalize your choice, please consider Isabet at your complete disposal.” Isabet is a beautiful woman, almost as tall as Myles and with a full facial tattoo. A scar dissects her right eyebrow. Bodyguard, Obi-Wan can buy, but secretary? She lifts her chin as if to dare him to ask her something.

“Stop fucking with my _riduur_ ,” Jango growls at her, prompting Isabet to break into an enormous grin. 

“Your Highness. Happy to help.” 

It occurs to him then that Isabet and Shmi are going to be spending a lot of time in each other’s company, and he resigns himself to inevitable terror. 

“I’m in your debt,” he says, in no way planning on getting on her bad side any time soon. 

Isabet throws her head back and laughs. “Oh Fett, you’re _fucked_.” Behind her, Almec turns purple and Kal rolls his eyes. 

“Hello, Isabet,” Jango sighs. “They still haven’t found a way to get rid of you yet?”

“Eh, they keep trying,” she shrugs. “Vizsla tried to have me shot the other day-“

“For the last time-“ the final member of the group throws his hands into the air. He, like the others, is wearing armor, though his is far more elaborate. He’s handsome, in a cold, unapproachable way, but his expression is twisted into a sneer. “I did not-“

Kal clears his throat loudly, cutting him off before he can continue, and Almec steps in between them. “And our Lord Chancellor, Pre Vizsla!” He says in a rush. 

So. This is the man he was to marry. The Commandos all agreed on another thing: Pre Vizsla has a sharp bite and a long memory. Highly skilled, they'd said, and incredibly dangerous. 

Jango’s grip on his hand suddenly hurts. 

The bitter scowl on Viszla’s face melts away into polite blandness. He takes a step closer - a step too close in Obi-Wan’s opinion - and bows deeply. “Your Highness. Welcome to Sundari. I hope you are satisfied with all that you find here.”

The punch of hatred that explodes from Jango is nearly as breathtaking as his previous anger towards the Jedi. 

“Oh yes,” Obi-Wan says sweetly. “I am most satisfied.”

“Of course he is!” Isabet laughs, shattering the sudden tension like glass and reaching over to punch Jango in the shoulder. “Look at our boy, all grown up and married!”

“Lady Reau, please!” Almec says, pained. 

Jango turns his head towards Myles and sounding equally as pained, asks, “Why couldn’t you have left her at the bottom of that cliff?”

“ _Mand’alor_!” 

“I mean, I did try…” Myles shrugs. 

“Your Highness, forgive us, we are not normally so…informal, so-“ If Almec gets any more purple pass out, but the hatred has bled from Jango’s body, replaced by the warmth of comradery. Isabet, like Myles, clearly knows Jango well. 

“Speak for yourself,” Kal mutters. “This is what happens when you work with children.”

“Alright, old man,” Myles snorts. “Did no one mash your breakfast up for you this morning?”

As Almec starts to splutter, Viszla finally takes a step away from Obi-Wan, his cold eyes calculating and conniving. Only LLats and Bo Katan have stayed silent and out of the conversation. Llats has the expression of a soldier on duty, unable to relax enough to banter while so close to his Principles. Bo Katan, however, is visibly struggling to hide her disdain. 

It’s oddly refreshing. On Stewjon, most politicians secretly want to murder each other, and they hide their intentions right up until the final strike. Here, it is clear that at least half of them are only a hairsbreadth from starting a full-on brawl. The honesty is breathtaking. And quite probably as much of a mask as the lies Obi-Wan is used to. 

“Please don’t apologize,” Obi-Wan says, meeting first Almec’s gaze, then Bo Katan’s. “I greatly enjoy the openness and honesty of your expression.”

“I imagine they do things differently where you’re from?” Bo Katan finally says. 

“Oh yes,” Obi-Wan smiles, “very differently indeed.”

* * *

That they manage to complete their introductions without bloodshed is something of a miracle. The fact that Almec decided to bring _that_ group of people into one space, without significant distraction on hand, leads Jango to question his sanity _and_ his competence. Obi-Wan is dignified and poised as always, even under Bo Katan’s death stare, but Jango's aged at least five years. 

Jango stands by his choice to put Isabet in charge of his _riduur’s_ safety: she can kick Jango’s ass up and down the training grounds, and is fierce in her duty, but she has no filter and will never miss out on a chance to make Jango squirm. He thinks - hopes - Obi-Wan will grow to like her, and he’s equally as certain she will quickly be delighted by him in return. 

The more he thinks about it, highly competent and completely crazy comprises all of the individuals he nominated for positions within his newly formed government. Even Llats is insane, for all that he hides it well. 

It's just the rest of them - the positions he had to concede in the name of peace - that put him completely on edge. The likes of Bo Katan and her cronies. The likes of _Pre kriffing Vizsla_. Unfortunate, but necessary evils in his quest for unification. 

He knows Pre wants him dead - Jango killed his father, he’d be more concerned if he didn’t - almost as much as Bo Katan does, but spending any time with them is always an unpleasant reminder of just how much he returns the sentiment. 

“They’re a colorful group,” is all Obi-Wan says when they finally take their leave and enter the main wing of the palace. Myles has diverted with his commandos and the ministers have gone back to their duties. Only Obi-Wan’s handmaids and Isabet accompany them, and Isabet thinks Jango can’t see the expressions she’s making behind him. Or more likely doesn’t really care. 

“They’re crazy,” Jango sighs, “but they are good people.”

“Most of us,” Isabet adds. “Some of us.” 

Jango ignores her and leads Obi-Wan up a set of sweeping stairs. “These are the private residences. There are rooms for Lord Oné and Lady Shmi adjacent to your own. Myles has a room on the second floor, but he rarely uses it.”

“Lord Fett’s room is at the end of the hall,” Isabet adds, unprompted. Obi-Wan bites his lip to hide a smile, and Oné looks like he’s about to explode from excitement. 

“My room is at the end of the hall,” Jango says firmly, finally prompting a laugh from his riduur. “And this is yours.”

They stop in front of a large, arched doorway. It’s only luck and ancient architecture that has designed them wide enough to accommodate Obi-Wan’s headdress. As the door slides open, Jango steps back and holds his breath. The rooms were already prepared before Jango even left for Corvie, but he’s sent word ahead for a few very important additions. 

Obi-Wan’s rooms in Corvie had been strewn with plants and flowers. That kind of wildlife might be commonplace on Stewjon, but it’s extortionately expensive here on Mandalore. Jango still has credits saved from his work before returning home, and with little to spend them on, he’s been waiting with almost giddy excitement to see what Isabet has arranged. 

She drives him insane, but there’s a reason she’s doubling her duties as part of Obi-Wan’s entourage: there’s _nothing_ she can’t arrange. 

And she’s broken every expectation. Jango follows Obi-Wan into the suite and steps into a world so overflowing with green leaves and colorful blossoms that it almost looks like a dream. It’s beautiful - even Jango thinks so, and all he knows about plants is which ones not to eat - and the delight that lights up Obi-Wan’s face is worth every credit. 

“Do you like it? Is this…is this okay?” He wants Obi-Wan to be comfortable. He wants him to be happy. 

Obi-Wan circles back towards him and kisses him on the cheek. “It’s _perfect._ Thank you.”

He wonders if he imagines the little squeak of happiness behind him, but is honestly too busy trying to get his feet back on the ground to care. 

“Good,” he whispers, “that’s good.” Obi-Wan is already off, examining the plants, gently touching some, and smiling to himself at others. Jango’s lost him already, and he couldn’t be happier. “Welcome home, _cyare_.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jango and Obi-Wan finally talk about their contract, and Jango has a genius idea. 
> 
> Since I've been asked so often, and because Pinterest is taking over my life, I will start adding various pieces of outfit inspiration at the ends of the chapters :D

“Good night, Your Highness.” 

Shmi and Oné stand in the doorway of Obi-Wan’s rooms, curtseying gracefully as they prepare to turn in for the night. It’s late, and with the days on Mandalore being so much shorter than they are on Stewjon they’re both only going to get five hours rest before they’re back and helping Obi-Wan prepare for his second - and final - marriage ceremony. 

“Get some sleep,” he says. “Tomorrow will be a long day.” In the past, they have always been off duty while Obi-Wan has worked, appearing every morning and evening like clockwork, and accompanying him only at official state functions. They have plans to implement a new system, but it will take time to establish just how viable they really are. 

Oné bobs again and leaves for his room. Shmi remains behind. 

“I will finish unpacking your belongings tomorrow,” she says, “but I have organized a number of items in the cabinet by your bed, should you wish to examine them.”

That’s all the information she gives him before following Oné down the hall. 

Curious, Obi-Wan approaches the sleek metal unit. He runs his fingers across the fine patterns etched into its sides, then pops open the top draw. 

Inside, neatly folded, are the contents of his little exploration box. 

Obi-Wan really, _really_ doesn’t deserve Shmi. 

He’s shed the confines of his robe and headdress and is luxuriating in the fine silken wrap he wears before sleep. But still, the simple black items call to him. 

There’s no time. Five hours, and he needs to be up again. 

There’s no time. It’s his first night, he really shouldn’t…

Tomorrow will see the robust Palace security double to accommodate the visiting dignitaries and politicians that have forged - or are in the process of forging - close ties with Mandalore through trade or alliance. The night after he is to spend in Jango’s bed. 

If not tonight, then… but no. Patience. This is his home now. The only rush is one born from his own wanderlust.

He closes the drawer.

Instead, he turns his attention to the datapad waiting for him on the desk in his study. He needs to familiarize himself with the list of people he will be engaging with at the ceremony. He knows most of the Mandalorian faces, but Isabet has been kind enough to forward him the extended list, as well as a promise to be at his side with a quiet reminder when necessary. 

Deciding to read in bed, he’s about to turn off the lights when a chime rings through the room, and Jango’s warm presence flutters against his mind. 

“It’s past twelfth hour,” Obi-Wan mutters, “what are you up to, Jango?”

* * *

Jango rings the chime on Obi-Wan’s door before he can talk himself out of it. He knows Shmi and Oné have retired for the evening - has asked one of Llats’s men to inform him when they leave Obi-Wan’s rooms - and if he leaves it much longer he runs the risk of Obi-Wan actually being asleep.

“ _Yes_?” Obi-Wan’s voice chimes through the intercom a moment later.

“It’s me,” Jango says, then adds, “Jango,” just in case Obi-Wan doesn’t know his voice well enough yet. 

It’s clearly unnecessary, and Obi-Wan’s amusement rings clear in his voice. “ _Can I help you, Jango_?”

“I wondered if we could talk. Before tomorrow.” Before the day _after_ tomorrow. 

There’s a moment of hesitation before Obi-Wan’s reply. “ _I’m not…give me a moment to change_?”

“No! No need! I thought of that,” Jango rushes to reassure him. “Can I come in? I promise I won’t see anything I shouldn’t.”

The door slides open with a soft hiss, and the warmth of Obi-Wan’s laughter follows a moment later. 

“You are a truly ridiculous man, Jango Fett,” he says, his fingers curling around Jango’s. “But a very dear one. Please tell me you put that on _after_ you found my door?”

“Hey, I know these halls blindfolded,” Jango grins. 

“A good thing, too! Come on.” Obi-Wan takes both of his hands and leads Jango into the room. Jango follows trustingly, complete faith in Obi-Wan’s care. 

He’s not supposed to see Obi-Wan without paint or proper adornment? Fine. That doesn’t mean Obi-Wan should go to any extra effort when the simpler solution is for Jango to blindfold himself. 

Does it mean that he’s almost aching with desire to know what Obi-Wan looks like right now, fresh-faced and ready to sleep? Absolutely kriffing yes. But he can be a patient man, despite the rumors Myles likes to circulate. And if this puts Obi-Wan at ease then it’s little hardship. 

“Couch,” Obi-Wan says. “Sit down.” Jango obeys, feeling the couch dip beside him when Obi-Wan settles down to join him. Soft, silken hair brushes the back of Jango’s hands. Obi-Wan must be wearing it loose, One day, Jango will earn the right to run his fingers through it and feel the weight of it against his skin. “You wanted to talk?”

“Yeah.”

“About tomorrow, or about us?”

“After,” Jango admits, “us. After us. After tomorrow I mean. After-“ How is this harder than when he can _see_ Obi-Wan judging his awkwardness? 

Still, Obi-Wan seems to know what he’s talking about. “Our next scheduled intercourse.”

“We need to come up with a better name for it than that,” Jango grumbles. 

“Our contractually mandated copulation?”

“No, that’s worse.” How is this his life?

“Our prearranged fuck?” Obi-Wan is having far too much fun at Jango’s expense. Clearly, that’s Myles’s influence. 

“Kriffing hells no! Stop!” The couch shifts a little and suddenly Obi-Wan’s leg is pressing against his as peals of laughter double him over. Jango pouts, or tries to, but ends up with a reluctant smile. It’s impossible not to hear Obi-Wan’s laughter and not want to join in. “You’re a menace.”

“I promise I’m not laughing _at_ you, darling.” He takes Jango’s hand and pulls it into his lap to hold. Cool silk brushes his knuckles. 

“Yeah, sure,” he’d roll his eyes if he could. “But that.” 

Obi-Wan seems to sober quickly, his laughter exchanged for gentle curiosity. “What would you like to talk about?”

Jango takes a breath. “Are you going to be okay? With us having sex?”

“Because of our fight?” Obi-Wan asks. He has an uncanny ability to cut right to the heart of the matter with very little to go on. It’s impressive. And a little unnerving. 

“And because we barely know each other,” Jango admits. 

Obi-Wan’s thumb rubs soothingly over the back of his hand. “Is this your way of telling me that _you’re_ not comfortable with us having sex?”

“I am going crazy,” Jango admits, “with how much I want to touch you. But I can’t _not_ worry that you’d allow it because of a contract, and not because you want it. What if we have another fight? What if the idea of me touching you horrifies you? What if you just have a shit day and don’t feel like it? I don’t… I didn’t think it through, when I agreed to the terms your lawyers presented. I didn’t think there would be any obligation to have sex at all. Or that you’d even _want_ to.”

He’s glad now that he can’t see Obi-Wan’s expression. 

“All the contract says is that I consent to intercourse with you,” Obi-Wan says slowly. “I don’t actually mean we have to do anything. We can spend the time baking if that’s what you want.”

“I… what?” He’s missing something here, he has to be. 

Obi-Wan sighs. “The clause is an ancient one, added at a time when my people believed that all unions benefitted from physical intimacy. Depending on which scholarly interpretation you ascribe to, that intimacy didn’t even need to be of a sexual nature. Over the years, as we turned out back on war and violence and embraced pacifism the Royal Household developed it into something specifically designed to protect those of us marrying into an alien culture.”

Jango shakes his head, following the line of Obi-Wan’s explanation but struggling to see the big picture. “Protect how?” 

Obi-Wan’s touch is rhythmic and almost hypnotizing. “Well, take us. On Stewjon, Mandalorians have a reputation for violence that is widely believed to extend to the bedroom.”

They do? How? Why? _How_?! “What?”

“I’m fairly certain it’s rooted in xenophobia. And possibly a little fetishism. You’re rather popular figures in trashy holo-novels - wild, domineering, savage. It’s colored people’s expectations.”

“That is…” horrifying. It’s _horrifying_. “It’s everything that goes against my _buir’s_ code! It’s… it’s….” Sexuality for Mandalorians is fluid and accepted in all forms. The only thing they get at all precious or heated about is sex that might result in a child, for obvious reasons. Kriff, Jango is _Mand’alor_ and the most sex he’s had is with Obi-Wan. And Stewjon was okay with just…signing Obi-Wan over to someone they thought so dishonorable? “Is every tendays a lot? _Not_ a lot?”

“The lawyers figured you’d push for more. It was one area we were willing to concede if you played hardball with other clauses.” More amusement in his voice, when Jango is just wishing he could go back in time to that date and punch the Stewjoni Prime Minister in the face. 

“Are they truly that desperate for aid that they’d subject you the questionable mercies of a man they felt so dangerous?” Jango asks disparagingly. 

“Yes and no,” Obi-Wan admits. “But I knew the second I saw you that you weren’t what people said you were. I knew it again when you helped me kneel to plant our trees. And when you touched me with such care and consideration when we consummated. Don’t think for a second that our union - and all that it entails - isn’t one I want and agree to with my whole heart. And please don’t think that I’m somehow trapped in a situation I have no desire to be in. If I don’t welcome your advances, Jango Fett, you _will_ know about it.”

Obi-Wan lifts his hand and kisses it in reassurance. 

Jango thinks about their fight on the trip. Obi-Wan wasn’t shy about making his feelings known then, and for some reason, Jango trusts that he’ll apply that same forcefulness to any situation that requires it.

More than that, he now understands just how much Obi-Wan is relying on him to care for and protect him. If Jango can trust that he will make his thoughts and desires known, then Obi-Wan is trusting that Jango will listen and respect them. 

It’s a dangerous contract, one he’s sure Jaster would’ve done a better job at negotiating, and one that he’s certain Pre Vizsla would have abused. Jango needs to be better. He _has_ to be better. He can never give Obi-Wan cause to think him cruel again.

“So when we meet for… intercourse… if you don’t want it, then-“

“I will make it clear,” Obi-Wan promises. “And if _you_ don’t?”

“I’ll tell you. Okay. That’s… I’m not gonna lie, I don’t think I understand how any of this is to your benefit, but I trust you if you say that you’re happy with the arrangement we have.” What else can he do? He wants to believe it. His heart has only two desires, and they are to see Mandalore thrive, and make Obi-Wan happy. 

Obi-Wan kisses his knuckles again. “So… back to our initial topic. If that night were tonight, would you welcome my touch?”

“Oh kriff, yes,” Jango says, immediately breathlessly at the thought. 

The couch shifts again. Obi-Wan raises Jango’s hand and presses it against his chest. Silk brushes the tips of his fingers, then gives way to warm, smooth flesh. He’s touched Obi-Wan through the fabric of his gown, and even with something so fine it’s nothing like the feel of skin against his own. 

“And my kiss?” Obi-Wan’s lips brush against his ear, whispering the words straight into Jango’s soul. 

“I - oh - can we?” They’ve come close a few times now, but never quite managed to go through with it. “The contract-“

“Do you consider a kiss to be intercourse?” Obi-Wan asks. His breath is hot against Jango’s throat now, his heart beating strong and steady below Jango’s hand. 

“No?”

“Then yes.”

“Kriff yes,” Jango says. “Kiss me. Please ki-“

The blindfold is a whole new kind of torture now. Obi-Wan climbs into Jango’s lap, curls his hands around the back of Jango’s neck, and presses their mouths together. 

It’s not completely unexpected, not when Obi-Wan’s voice almost purred with desire, and Jango wastes no time in finally getting the one thing he’s wanted more than anything. 

He gives into the kiss, lets Obi-Wan take the lead, and sinks his fingers into the long, heavy fall of hair that hangs around them. It feels like silk - as soft and thick as lothcat fur - the lingering scent of blossoms sweet and increasingly familiar. When his hands brush Obi-Wan’s back, they make direct contact with skin.

Has he removed the silk robe? 

Spreading his palm out flat, he can feel the ridge of scar tissue beneath his fingers and pulls Obi-Wan tighter against him as they kiss. The closer he is, the safer Jango can keep him. 

Obi-Wan breaks their kiss with a breathless moan and rests their foreheads together in a way that is just as much of a kiss to Jango. “What do you like?” He asks, absently kissing Jango’s closed eyes through the blindfold. “Soft? Sweet?” Those kisses travel across his cheeks and down his jaw. Jango clutches his hair and fights against the urge to tear away the blindfold and see just how flushed and beautiful he knows Obi-Wan will be looking. 

He’s promised. Obi-Wan trusts him. Jango will remove his own eyes before breaking that faith. 

“Kriff…” he whimpers, a daring hand stroking slowly down Obi-Wan’s back, lower and lower until the hard ridges of his ribcage and spine give way to firm, plump muscle. Obi-Wan arches against him, his chest heaving.

“Sharp?” He asks, surprising Jango with a teasing bite to his bottom lip. 

Yes. All of it. Everything. 

“What do _you_ like?”

“I like your hands where they are,” Obi-Wan admits. “And I like - oh!” Jango doesn’t even know why he suddenly tugs on Obi-Wan’s hair, but the sound he makes is obscene. “Yes, I like that,” Jango remembers the little bars of metal that pierced his nipples and wonders if Obi-Wan is still wearing them. He draws a map across Obi-Wan’s skin with worshipful fingers, finds his prize, cool and firm where it spears through flesh. He’s clearly broadcasting his intentions. He twists with one hand, tugs with the other, and Obi-Wan smoothers his cry of pleasure against Jango’s lips. 

Okay. Okay this is… kriff….

He releases his targets and wraps both his arms tightly around Obi-Wan’s waist. The last time he tried this, Obi-Wan still somehow managed on to end up on top, but not this time. This time Jango has better leverage. 

He pushes himself up to his feet, taking advantage of Obi-Wan’s surprise and the tight way he clings to Jango with his arms and thighs. 

Carefully, knowing how precarious this is when he can’t see, Jango lowers him back down to the couch and climbs on top of him. 

“Kissing,” he promises, “just kissing…just…” Obi-Wan tightens his legs around his waist, holding him in place. He’s still wearing the robe, Jango can feel it, but it’s loose and sliding down his limbs. Just the knowledge that he has Obi-Wan beneath him, nearly naked in every possible way he can be… 

“I like _this_ ,” Jango whispers against the corner of Obi-Wan’s lips. 

“I - oh - I couldn’t tell?”

“No? Should I try again?” They’re both hard now. Hard enough that Jango knows he’s going to need to drop the temperature on his fresher significantly if he’s going to want to sleep tonight. 

“You don’t want to take the blindfold off?” Obi-Wan asks, his chest heaving beneath Jango’s own. 

If he takes it off, this has to end. He’s earned the right to kisses, nothing more. “No.”

Obi-Wan clings to him in response. “Then yes.”

This time Jango takes the lead. He holds Obi-Wan’s face carefully in his hand, using his thumb to find the plush curve of Obi-Wan’s lip before following with a kiss. He can count on the one hand the number of people he’s kissed in his life and still have fingers spare, but every sound Obi-Wan makes, every clench of his thighs and demanding tug of his hands floods Jango with confidence and certainty. The things he’s unsure of, the skills he knows he’s lacking… he’ll discover them with Obi-Wan. Not in the generic way of merely learning by doing, but hyper-focused. He’ll learn the things Obi-Wan likes and he’ll do them over and over until he’s mastered them. 

The last of his worry melts away with every moan he coaxes from Obi-Wan’s mouth. Tomorrow, they will marry in the Mandalorian way. Obi-Wan will take his place at Jango’s side and transform Mandalore as he is slowly transforming Jango, and the day after, if he wants, if he says yes, Jango will embark on the first real lesson of the study he intends to make his life’s greatest work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	17. Chapter 17

“What are you doing in my kitchen, boy?”

Thirty minutes after reluctantly wrenching himself from his _riduur’s_ arms, Jango finds himself restlessly stalking the lower halls of the palace. His feet bring him, as they so often did when he was young, to the vaulted chamber that hosts the grand Sundari kitchen. The huge expanse, almost the entire width of the palace, holds all the royal cellars, storerooms, and pantries, as well as the kitchen itself. Jango remembers a mad, bustling place, and the part of the hall closet to the kitchen gardens given over to simple rows of tables and chairs. For a few credits, every citizen in Sundari could come to the palace kitchen and be certain of a hearty meal. It was one of Jaster’s proudest accomplishments and it will be one of Jango’s too. Once his marriage is ratified in the courts, the last of the administration surrounding his rise to _Mand’alor_ will be complete and he’ll be able to spend his time in Parliament pushing for things that really matter. 

Part of that task will fall to Jag, Master of the Royal Kitchen and current obstacle to Jango’s late-night wandering. 

“You know I’m not ten anymore,” Jango points out. “Hardly a boy.”

Continuing the trend Jango seems to have of surrounding himself with absolute giants, Jag is another mountain of a man, his plate-sized hands as adept at breaking bones as they are at making pasty. He eyes Jango critically, cleaning his hands on the cloth that hangs from his belt. “Same look in your eyes,” he says gruffly. “Kriff off to bed.”

“I’m _Mand’alor_! You can’t send me to bed!”

“Then come be useful. The bigshot upstairs is getting married in the morning and I’ve got three hundred rolls of bread to bake.”

Jango rolls his eyes, then his sleeves. “Did you manage to become even more of a bastard while I was gone?”

Jag grunts and nudges him towards the sanitation station. “You’d know if you ever came to visit me.”

“I visit!” Jango protests. He’s always enjoyed the way the sanitizers make his skin feel clean and tingly, and that’s only increased. He cleans his hands twice.

“When you know the kitchens are empty. Don’t begrudge you a little therapy, but cooking's better with company.”

“I have company,” Jango says softly. Jag directs him over to one of the workbenches. In another hour the kitchens will be full of people, all working on the wedding feast. Realistically, there’s not much he can contribute alone, but this is something he’s done with Jag a hundred times. It’s something he and his _buir_ did before that. 

“Oh, aye,” Jag snorts. “Myles is a good lad. Love you fierce, he does.” He taps the side of his head with one large finger. “Doesn’t always understand what goes on up here though, does he?”

_Jango_ doesn’t understand what goes on in his head most of the time. 

“He tries,” Jango shrugs, and starts to measure out the portions for a single loaf of bread. Technology will see the rest are made in bulk. “That’s what matters.” 

Jag hums in agreement. “And what about that pretty little thing you brought back with you?”

“His name is Obi-Wan,” he says, a note of warning in his voice. He knows - and finds comfort - in Jag’s gruff manners, but he won’t suffer Obi-Wan to anyone’s disrespect, even an old friend like Jag. 

“Never said it wasn’t,” Jag holds up an appeasing hand. “But you’re not in your bed, and you’re not in his… choice or design?”

The ghost of Obi-Wan’s lips reminds him that he will be, tomorrow. And that while he’s playing ignorant to the meaning of Jag’s words, eventually he’s going to have to confront them. 

He says nothing, just focuses on the task in front of him. 

Jag eyes him carefully. “Ain’t no shame in nightmares, boy.” Just once it would be nice to have a friend who _isn’t_ as blunt as a kriffing hammer. 

“Who says I have nightmares?” Jango scowls into the mixing bowl and starts working the dough with a hell of a lot more aggression than it deserves. 

“Call it an educated guess.”

All soldiers have nightmares. He had them even before Galidraan. They haven’t even been that bad recently, not until their encounter with the _jetii_. He’s still unsettled, that’s all. It’ll pass. It always passes. 

It’s not as though he has any alternative. He won’t force Obi-Wan to shoulder the burden of his demons, nor will he suffer him to be inconvenienced by them. 

“They’re not that bad,” Jango protests. “I’m handling them.”

“Aye,” Jag says knowingly. “Heard that one from you before. Don’t forget the salt.”

“I haven’t!” Jango snaps. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you’ve fed me the same line of banthashite before. You’re not fourteen anymore.” Which doesn’t explain why he so often feels as though he is. Half a lifetime has passed since, and sometimes it still feels like yesterday. “Your _riduur_ , the sparkly one,” Jag holds up a flour-covered hand to silence his interruption. “Your _buir_ picked him for a reason. Can’t say I understood him most of the time, but Jaster was no fool.”

No. No, he wasn’t. 

“You know I came here for some peace and quiet?” Jango says pointedly.

“Shit move, Jan’ika,” Jag shrugs. 

Jango throws his hands up, flour raining down on him in gentle plumes. “ _Mand’alor_! _Mand’alor_! Kriff, you’re worse than your son!”

“Boy had to get it from somewhere, didn’t he?”

Jango huffs. “Yeah, but I can hit Myles when he annoys me.”

“Gotta have some perks with being old,” Jag laughs. “Now, you gonna actually do anything with that mess, or…?”

Grumbling under his breath, Jango turns his attention back to the dough. 

* * *

If his wedding gown on Stewjon was stiff and heavy and uncomfortable, this one is anything but. The chances of accidentally killing someone with it are significantly higher, but it’s far easier to move in. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, Shmi and Oné behind him, flushed and slightly disheveled from the effort that has gone into putting everything together. 

Obi-Wan’s union with Jango is supposed to bring new life and vitality to Mandalore, and so he’s picked the one element all life needs to flourish, and dressed himself accordingly. 

Fine, gauzy fabric shimmers in the light, a full skirt brushing the floor and making it look as if he’s floating when he walks. The tight bodice is only high enough to hide his decency, and the full sleeves billow out from just above his elbows. It leaves his neck, shoulders, and much of his back bare, and that’s where the true beauty - and danger - of the gown comes into play. Shard of iridescent glass and diamonds form a delicate web that covers everything from the tight collar at his throat all the way down to the hem of the skirt. It’s matched by a headdress made of the same material, spilling trails of sparkling silver and white over his shoulders and arms. Most of the glass has been carefully cut, polished, and smoothed to be free from any sharp edges, but not all of it. 

When he moves, he looks like sunlight glinting off crystal clear water. Oné has covered every inch of his skin with a light, shimmering powder and painted delicate, iridescent paint in swirling patterns across his face and shoulders. 

He arrived on Mandalore in black and gold, in armor and opulence. 

He’ll marry Jango in something as delicate and fragile as it is inviting, something that draws you in closer and promises the sting of bloodshed if not handled with care. 

It’s the same message, just a very different execution. 

It’s been planned this way for weeks - months even - but as he stares at his reflection Obi-Wan can’t understand the cold dread that creeps across his skin. Something aches in the back of his mind, a warning slowly building pressure at the base of his skull, throbbing with each pulse of his heart. 

It’s not Jango, not the marriage. Force, the only time he ever feels warm these days is when Jango touches him, his hands chasing the chill from his bones. No, it’s something else. Something far away, elusive. 

Perhaps it’s simple: he chose this outfit to make a point, to take a stand, and yet all he wants now is to feel Jango’s strong arms around him. It’s certainly not possible dressed like this, when even a slight misstep might result in injury. 

He doesn’t want to hurt Jango. He feels chilled just thinking about it. Better instead to count down the hours, the minutes, seconds, until he can go to Jango and find that warmth again. 

It’s strange; he’s never once longed for the safety and security of another’s embrace. He never wanted for encouragement or support as a youngling, and though he craved Qui-Gon’s attention and guidance there had been no thought of turning to him for physical affection. His father loves him the best he can, and his brother is far too fragile to offer up any care of his own. Eithne and Cadhla love him and aren’t shy with it, but he rarely sees them. Even Shmi and Oné are bound by rank and status, for all that Obi-Wan never asks it of either of them. 

If anything, Dooku is really the only person he’s ever turned to feel safe, and that’s limited by his own pride and shame. 

With Jango, it’s so easy. _So easy_. Everything about him that should stir Obi-Wan to caution is offset by his honest, easy vulnerability. 

Only a few hours ago, Obi-Wan lay beneath him, bare-faced, his clothing more obscene than modest. Obi-Wan might be taller, but Jango is a solid wall of muscle, heavy and strong. Yet there wasn’t a second where he questioned just how far he might try to take things. 

Kissing is all that’s allowed, and kissing is all that Jango asks for.

Force, it’s Obi-Wan who has to remind himself of their contract and his vows. 

“Relax,” Shmi soothes. “You’ve survived worse.”

“This won’t be half as bad as Life Day last year,” Oné adds. 

By unspoken agreement, both Obi-Wan and Shmi do what they can to protect Oné from the harsher details of their shared history. Oné knows as much as anyone on Stewjon - as much as Jango - and if they have their way, he will never know more. He has a gentle innocence they both cherish.

But Obi-Wan understands what Shmi is saying. They’ve both survived things many people wouldn’t.

That she equates this - his marriage to Jango - as anything even close to that hurts his heart. 

None of this is about Jango. Whatever he’s feeling, whatever uncertain future he’s dwelling on, it needs to stop. Jango deserves nothing else. 

Obi-Wan deserves nothing else. 

A new start. There's no room for the specter of the past or the looming shadow of the future, not now. The present is all that matters. 

“No,” he says, fixing on a smile, “of course not.”

* * *

“You’ve gotta stop doing this,” Jango says stupidly, his jaw and his heart somewhere down by his ankles. “You’re going to kill me.”

“I would never,” Obi-Wan says, gliding gracefully to meet Jango at the entrance to the palace’s grand hall. Beyond the doors, their guests await. 

“Just injure me fatally,” Jango shakes his head. “I’m just a simple man, _kar’ika_. Your beauty should be far beyond the likes of me.”

Obi-Wan looks like starlight on water, like the hallucination of a man lost in the wilderness, dying of thirst and dreaming up an impossible fantasy. 

“There is nothing simple about you, Jango Fett.” 

Jango shakes his head in disagreement. He’s a farmer’s son, a soldier. A reluctant politician, yes, but neither he nor Jaster belonged to the kind of world Obi-Wan comes from. People in Jango’s world don’t look the way Obi-Wan looks, they don’t smell as sweet, they aren’t as soft under his hands. 

What _was_ Jaster thinking when he chose Obi-Wan as his _riduur_? 

He reaches forward, but Obi-Wan finches back, catching Jango’s hand in his own before it can make contact. “Careful! I’ll hurt you.” The twinkling glass that hangs from his headdress flashes with his movement. He says he’ll hurt Jango, but it’s far more likely he’ll hurt himself. 

“I think I’m safe,” Jango says, drawing his hand and Obi-Wan’s with it back until he can press a kiss to shimmering knuckles. “You’re always so cold,” he frowns. 

Every time Obi-Wan blinks, every time he turns his head or raises his hand, light dances across the room. There won’t be an eye in the room not focused on him. The symbolism and purpose of Stewjon’s insane fashions are still lost to him, but the soldier in Jango can appreciate the distraction Obi-Wan presents. While he holds the attention of the room, Jango can fade into the shadows at his side. All the better to observe from. 

“Not always,” Obi-Wan admits. “I’m warm when I’m with you.”

“Then stay close,” Jango smiles, “and don’t be afraid. This is gonna be a little more lively than things were last time, but no one will dare show you any disrespect.”

“Because it would be a slight against you?”

Jango laughs. “Because you look like you’ll cut someone with a glance. We like a little bloodshed with our weddings, but we tend to stick to fights, not stabbing.” He realizes a second later that Obi-Wan doesn’t realize he’s teasing. “Joking! I’m joking! No fighting. Ale, bad singing, and boisterous dancing, that’s it.”

“No knives?” Obi-Wan chuckles, finally breaking out into a small smile.

“Some knives,” Jango admits. “The dancing is _really_ boisterous.”

“You’ll have to teach me some time,” Obi-Wan smiles. 

Jango reaches up to rub the back of his neck, blushing furiously. Dancing will be another excuse to hold Obi-Wan in his arms until he's allowed to take him to his bed. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

They’re going to have plenty of time. Today is just the start. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's outfit is a bit of an amalgamation! 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you waiting for Obi-Wan to stab someone... soon! 
> 
> For those of you waiting for angst... *hides*
> 
> Warnings: mentions of child death/infanticide.

Mandalorian weddings have very little in common with Stewjoni weddings, that much is very true. Where every second of every ceremony on Stewjon had been scheduled and pre-planned, the ceremony on Mandalore lasts only long enough for them to exchange vows before the gathered guests and officials break open the ale and the day descends into semi-organized chaos. 

It’s bright and brilliant and full of joy, laughter and singing. Jango smiles so wide and so brightly as he introduces Obi-Wan to everyone who eagerly puts themselves in their path. His happiness is infectious, and Obi-Wan finds himself laughing along as Myles attempts to bully Jango into a drinking contest, and Bo-Katan makes scathing commentary on the visiting dignitaries.   
  


“Later!” Jango laughs, nudging a bowl of spiced, sticky nuts towards Obi-Wan. “I’ll drink you all under the table later!”

The _Mando’ade_ closest erupt into a cheer.

They’re an unruly, intimidating lot, but they welcome Obi-Wan with warmth and kindness, and only a few of them put their foot in their mouths when attempting introductions. 

Even the ale isn’t bad. It’s a meal in and off itself, let alone the huge feast that appears towards mid-day, but it’s tolerable, and almost as warming as the hand that never leaves his own. 

He’ll go so far as to say that it’s a perfect day, right up until the final round of guests joins their table. 

In fairness, he should’ve been prepared. If he’d read the guest list Isabet had acquired for him, he would’ve seen this coming and made the necessary arrangements to avoid it. But just as Jango distracted him from his task last night, he’s distracted him again today, blinding Obi-Wan to everything in the world except his smile. 

Which is how he finds himself face to face with Xanatos duCrion. 

“Your Highness.” Xanatos bows low, one arm sweeping out in the grand Telos fashion. Of course he’s here. Telos is on the edge of Mandalorian space. They probably trade. Xanatos is Telos’s beloved First Son, and even if he weren’t here in a political role, as CEO of Offworld, this is exactly the kind of party he’d ensue he attended. 

Obi-Wan stares at him, speechless. He’s dimly aware of the rest of their table staring at him in turn. He’s managed to be gracious and jocular up to this point, and his silence is damning.

When Xanatos leans in closer, Obi-Wan flinches back. 

“Forgive my _riduur_ ,” Jango steps in with a gentle laugh. “It’s the first time he’s been subjected to Mandalorian ale. Welcome.”

Obi-Wan’s mouth opens before he can stop it. “You’re a Jedi,” he says, which might be better or worse than the other accusation that is on his tongue. 

Wedding or not, if Obi-Wan tells Jango that they’re sharing a table with the man who kidnapped and solid him into slavery _twice_ , heads will roll. That’s not something he’s willing to risk.

Does Xanatos even recognize Obi-Wan? He's hardly the boy he once was. Even without the paint and the headdress, even in galactic standard clothing... he doesn't imagine many would recognize him as Obi-Wan Kenobi, failed Jedi Padawan. 

Whether Xanatos manages to take Obi-Wan down with him or not, that’s the question. 

Oddly, though, Jango doesn’t seem surprised by his exclamation. Nor does Xanatos deny it. 

“It is true,” he says with an air of heavy regret. “I was stolen from my home by the Jedi as an infant and brainwashed into their cult. Freeing myself took many years and cost many lives.” He looks at Obi-Wan with eyes just as cold and empty as Obi-Wan remembers. “My father gave everything to save me from their lies and manipulations, and for that they murdered him. Many around this table understand that pain.”

Jango raises his ale to Xanatos in a solemn salute. “You’re free now,” he says gravely. “It takes great strength of character to rid yourself of shackles worn since infancy.”

“You are too kind, _Mand’alor_ ,” Xanatos says, inclining his head. “Every day I must remind myself to purge their poison from my mind. Lessons from unworthy teachers leave deep furrows to fill with truth.”

He's not even lying, and perhaps that's why the _Mando'ade_ around the table all nod in quiet solidarity. 

He smiles, wide and bright. It’s the smile of a man who knows he doesn’t even need to fight a battle to win it. 

Oh, he knows who Obi-Wan is alright. 

Obi-Wan swallows painfully. “I expected less tolerance,” he says, looking to Jango. “Given your personal feelings towards the Jedi.”

“We cannot blame a child for the sins of his kidnappers,” Pre Vizsla responds. 

“Just the choices he makes as a man,” Xanatos nods, raising his ale high in salute. “Don't you agee, Your Highness?”

“I struggle with the concept of hating any group of people as a whole,” Obi-Wan says, his voice tight. For once, Jango's hand on his doesn't feel like a gentle tether to his affection, but a shackle waiting to clamp down and drag him below the surface of his rising fear. 

He's lost his chance. If Xanatos reveals him now, Jango will kill him. Force, his people might even demand it. Any possibility of slowly bringing him around to the idea that Obi-Wan was once the very thing he hates has been stolen from him. 

And if he doesn't... what will his silence cost?

* * *

  
“Of course Mandalore and Stewjon have that in common, do they not?” Xanatos asks Obi-Wan. “A contentious relationship with the Jedi.”

“I suppose that depends on how you define contentious,” Obi-Wan replies. His voice is soft and even, giving no indication of any discomfort. Jango is curious enough to let the conversation continue, trusting Obi-Wan will put an end to it should he wish to. 

“Don't Stewjoni drown children who develop Force abilities?” Xanatos asks. 

Obi-Wan’s expression is as smooth and clear as the glass that frames his face. “It's been years since that practice was last attempted,” he says calmly. “And a hundred years since the time before it. It's not something that happens with any great frequency.”

Jango's heart recoils at the notion of harming an innocent child, even as he recalls his own words from the journey just past. 

“Good riddance,” Vizsla scoffs. “The less _jetii_ in the Galaxy, the better.”

“It was my understanding that the _Mando'ade_ cherished children above all others,” Obi-Wan turns his head to Vizsla and pins him with a searching expression. 

“ _Jetii_ are not _ade_ ,” Vizsla says cooly. “It is our creed to honor _ade_ , to protect the innocent. There's nothing innocent about those soulless beasts.”

“Says the man whose _buir_ allied himself with them,” Kal snorts. 

Pre bristles furiously. “My father’s crimes are known to me, Kal Skirata. There is no need to remind me of his folly.”

“Enough,” Jango cuts in, sensing the brewing fight and refusing to allow old wounds to tarnish his wedding and upset his _riduur_. “There will be no talk of past conflicts at this table.”

“No, infanticide seems a far more appropriate topic,” Obi-Wan snaps, his voice so cold that it silences the table. 

“Apologies, Your Highness,” Xanatos dips his head low. “It wasn't my intention to upset you.”  
  
“I'm certain,” Obi-Wan says. He pushes back his chair and stands, the rest of the table startled and scrambling to follow. “Please excuse me.”

Xanatos is already apologizing to Jango before Obi-Wan has even completely left the table. “My Lord-“

Jango ignores him. 

“That’s what you get when you don’t marry a _Mando’ade_ ,” Kal says into his ale. “Emotional little thing, isn’t he?”

Jango can’t physically be in two places at once, which is why he has Myles. Before he’s even finished calling his friends name, Myles punches Kal in the jaw on Obi-Wan’s behalf, leaving Jango free to follow after his _riduur_. 

It’s easy enough to find him. Jango spots Isabet looking surly at the entrance to the balcony and ensures there’s more than an arms length between them as he passes. Isabet already likes Obi-Wan. And she never needs a reason to call Jango on his shit. 

“Fetch Lady Shmi,” Jango orders, knowing that if he can’t soothe Obi-Wan, Shmi will at least stand a better chance. 

Isabet nods, leaving Obi-Wan in Jango’s care. 

Outside, lit by the bright backdrop of Sundari’s many millions of lights, Obi-Wan stands a lone figure on the edge of the balcony. Lone, and lonely. Not for the first time Jango marvels at his loveliness and the way he aches to seclude and shelter him from anything that might sully it. Now, he wonders what that must be like. 

He must be aware of the way others talk about him. He can’t not be. He’s too observant and too calculating in the choices he makes to not know what people see when they look at him. Kal didn’t speak with any malice. Callousness, yes, even discrimination. Neither deserved, nor to be tolerated, but a simple statement of fact as Kal sees things. Kriff, even Jag spoke the same way, and for all his gruff nature, the man would lay down his life for Obi-Wan without ever once speaking to him. 

Obi-Wan has been on Mandalore for a matter of hours, and already Jango has failed to establish a baseline of acceptable behavior for the way he should be treated. 

_Emotional little thing. Pretty little thing._ By nature an object. Something Jango owns. 

Obi-Wan’s clothes, the paint, he wears like armor. Like a shield separating him from the rest of the world. It’s part of his culture, yes, but why wouldn’t he lean into it for safety and comfort when the very nature of their marriage establishes him as the prize Jango so adamantly claims he isn’t?

He’s assured Jango of his acceptance, his consent, even his desire, but Jango’s failed to factor one very important detail into his plans.

Today, this feast, this _marriage_ , marks the final act in his ascension to power as _Mand’alor_. 

To his people, he is merely claiming the prize long denied him. He’s done nothing to correct that assumption. Worse, he arrived with rumors of their fight - of his threats, and Obi-Wan’s play of submission in the brig - already setting the tone. 

What can he even say, other than, “I’m sorry.”

Obi-Wan turns around so fast that Jango is afraid the shards that dangle around his face will cut him. “Are you?”

“More than you can know.”

“What if I were a Jedi?” He demands, his eyes as bright and sharp as the glass surrounding him. 

Jango recoils, unable to even process the thought. There is _nothing_ in Obi-Wan even remotely like the _jetii_. He’s gentle and kind and fierce. His warmth and compassion radiates from him with every breath. How can he even begin to compare himself to the cold, cruel, heartless assassins of the Republic?

“What?”

Obi-Wan takes a step forward. “What if I were a Jedi?” He repeated. “Would you kill me?”

“Why are you even asking me this?” Jango shakes his head. “You’re not.”

“If I were, would you drown me? Would you rid the Galaxy of my evil?” He blinks, a single tear rolling down his cheek. Jango can’t stand to see him cry, and hates the _jetii_ for having the power to inflict this much pain, even when not present. 

“You are the furthest thing from evil,” Jango whispers. He closes the space between them and gently cups his cheek in his palm. “Obi-Wan… don’t spare space in your heart for those monsters. They don’t need it and they don’t deserve it.” Jango draws him in closer. If he cuts himself, so be it: the rewards far outweigh the risk. “I know one showed you kindness. I know it is hard to accept that a truth once held close might be nothing more than a well disguised lie. Look at Xanatos - how hard must it have been for him to see the truth and emerge from that darkness?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head, more tears clinging to the edges of his lashes. “Xanatos duCrion is dangerous, Jango.”

“Of course he is!” Jango agrees. “He was a Jedi!” Perhaps that is it? How can Jango convince Obi-Wan of the danger _jetii_ pose if he’s willing to allow one to share their table, even one now reformed? “Forgive me. I’ll have him removed. You won’t ever have to see him again, I swear-“

Again, Obi-Wan turns. This time he hides his face from Jango and clutches the rail for support. 

“Please,” Jango begs, desperately reaching for him and finding only sharp edges. “Please, tell me how to make this right. I can’t stand to see you cry…”

“The child they tried to drown on Stewjon…” Obi-Wan whispers. “Was three years old. Tell me you would have spared him. Imagine he was yours. Imagine he was _ours_.” He turns back to Jango, something broken in his eyes. “Old enough to know your face and cry out for you when the priests came to take him away.”

A cold, sickly feeling starts to spread through his chest. “Did you know him?” He can’t imagine the Stewjoni doing anything so barbaric as to murder a child. A baby. He can’t imagine Jaster ever wanting to ally himself with anyone who would.

But if _jetii_ aren’t really… no. _No_ , he’s better than that. He has to be. For all his fear, for all his words on the ship, Jango _knows_ he’s better than that. How could he live with himself otherwise? 

“Tell me!” Obi-Wan snaps. “Tell me that child deserved to die! That it’s better they killed him than he grew up to be one more Jedi in the Galaxy.” He hurls Jango’s own words back at him with brutal intent. 

“No,” Jango swears reverently. “I wouldn’t harm him, nor would I suffer anyone else to.”

“Why?” Obi-Wan asks. 

“Because to do otherwise would make me as evil and dishonorable as they are,” Jango responds, resolute and honest. 

Obi-Wan closes his eyes and lets another tear fall as he nods. “I understand.”

“I should have changed the conversation the second it came up,” Jango whispers. “Forgive me.”

“No,” Obi-Wan shakes his head. He dabs lightly at the tracks of tears on his cheeks. In mere seconds, he transforms his sorrow back into serenity and hides himself away again. “No, it’s alright.” As he vanishes back behind that pretty mask, Jango can’t help but feel as if he’s missed some horrible truth. 

“The child,” he asks hesitantly, “what happened to him?”

There’s no flinch in Obi-Wan’s gaze this time, just calm acceptance. “He died.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with bugless formatting! *bangs head*

  
They try to return to the party. It wouldn’t be unheard of for a newlywed couple to vanish halfway through the celebrations, but with Obi-Wan so visibly upset when he left, they both attempt to put on a show of unity and cheer. 

Obi-Wan does a far, far better job than Jango does. He takes a seat back at the table, and in a matter of minutes manages to orchestrate a debate between Bo-Katan and Kal that has the rest of the party cackling into their ale. 

Jango, aware that he’s failing any attempt at subtly, and is, in fact, hovering, stands and does a few rounds of socializing with the few party-goers still sober enough to hold a conversation. 

He keeps an eye on the table: on Obi-Wan, who is safely seated between Pre and Myles and is smiling sweetly in-between acerbic commentary. If Jango hadn’t seen him crying with his own eyes, he’d not believe it from looking at him. 

Obi-Wan is a scarily adept liar. No wonder he’s got such a reputation for politics. 

An hour or so passes, during which time he drinks enough ale to soften his anxiety to a more tolerable buzz of concern. Then, swooping in as a harbinger of doom and bad news, Myles pops up at his side. 

“So. Hypothetically,” he starts, immediately kicking a headache into Jango’s brain. “If there were to be some mild stabbing-“

“I said no stabbing!” Jango flails his arm at him. “I promised Obi-Wan there would be no stabbing!”

“Obi-Wan _did_ the stabbing!” Myles shouts back. “Right through Vizsla’s hand! He’s pinned to the kriffing table!”

That doesn’t sound right. “Why would Obi-Wan stab Vizsla?” Even Jango manages to resist the urge. He leans around Myles, and sure enough, Pre is flapping like an overgrown bird, his hand pinned to the table with a long stiletto blade and blood streaming from his nose.

Obi-Wan did that?!

Myles shrugs his shoulders. “He said something. I didn’t hear much of it, but I’ll go out on a limb and say it wasn’t all that polite.”

Oh, Pre thinks he’s hurting _now_? “ _I’ll_ kriffing stab him!” Jango growls. How _dare_ he? How dare he even look at me Obi-Wan, let alone-

“It’s your wedding,” Myles protests. “I’ll stab for you!”

“I’m perfectly capable of my own stabbing, thank you very much,” Obi-Wan says churlishly as he appears at Jango’s other side. “But I think I will take this opportunity to retire for the evening. _Mand'alor_.” He presses a kiss to Jango’s cheek before leaving. Shmi and Oné, who have been hovering with slightly less intent than Jango, follow him silently. 

“Myles?” Jango says, watching beads of Viszla’s blood drip from his _riduur’s_ sleeves. 

“I know, I know,” Myles grumbles. “You’re going to marry him. Kriffing hells, you two deserve each other.”

“Hey,” Jango frowns. “He’s just upset, that’s all. That whole _jetii_ thing earlier really got to him.” Pre still hasn’t managed to remove the blade from the table, and now has a small gathering of drunk Mando’ade gathered around him, none of whom are doing much in the way of helping. Bo-Katan is laughing so hard she has tears streaming down her cheeks, which… Jango didn’t know she even _could_ laugh. Even Kal is cackling, one hand braced on the back of a chair as he wobbles unsteadily. 

It really _is_ funny. Jango’s going to give Pre a set of black eyes to go with that broken nose, but it’s funny. 

“I figured,” Myles says, looking sympathetic. “You think his people really do that? Drown kids?”

From Obi-Wan’s reaction, it sounds likely. There’s clearly some trauma attached that extends beyond the mere horror of the scenario. As a Prince, was he forced to watch?

“I think we do whatever we have to do to ensure that no one mentions the _jetii_ in his presence,” Jango frowns. “It upsets him, and I-“

“Don’t want to go into all the gritty details?” Myles delivers his blunt assessment at the same time as he raises a very pointed eyebrow. Jango glares at him, just drunk enough to want to punch him for daring to be right. Myles, the smug bastard that he is, claps his hand on Jango’s shoulder. “I know you say you wanna protect him, but if this-“ he gabs a thumb towards Pre, who has finally guilted Llats into helping him remove the blade, “is his idea of pacifism, I’d hate to see him at war.”

“He’s just upset,” Jango says again, a little more desperately. 

“Sure. And for whatever reason, he stabbed Pre so hard that the blade is embedded three inches deep in a solid wood table. And then he punched him in the face. Those kinds of reflexes don’t come out of nowhere.” Jango opens his mouth to protest. “No, I’m not saying any of this like it’s a bad thing!” Myles promises. “If one of Llats’s men don’t have the whole thing on security cam I might actually cry, but… I don’t think you need to worry about him as much as you are.”

“He’s my _riduur_ ,” Jango says helplessly. 

“I know, _vod_ ,” Myles’s posture softens to something far more gentle. 

“If anything… I can’t…” he shakes his head, helpless. He can’t even keep Obi-Wan safe from things that make him cry, and the thought of him in danger… Jango's earliest memories are of loss, and he’s never gotten any better at it. His greatest desire is to protect the people he loves and never once has he managed it with any success. Obi-Wan _has_ to be different. 

“Nothing is going to happen to him,” Myles promises. “I honestly pity anyone who tries anything, I mean look-“ he finally loses the battle to hide his glee as he points dramatically at Pre and his surrounding circus. “We don’t even need to get him fitted for _beskar’gam_! Even Kal’s impressed! Nothing impresses that miserable shleb.”

“He really did that?” Jango asks, feeling the first stirrings of his own smile start to grow.

“Nobody’s gonna hurt your _riduur_ ,” Myles says seriously. “No one is gonna kriffing dare!”

* * *

Obi-Wan dismisses Shmi and Oné the second he steps foot in his rooms. They protest, both their faces drawn with worry - and in Shmi’s case, fury - but he stays firm until they understand that he will order them to leave him if they push. 

“An hour,” Shmi warns. “If we come back and you’ve tried to remove everything by yourself, I’ll put itching powder in your underwear.” It’s a threat she often makes, playfully irritated when Obi-Wan insists on trying to do things alone. Trying to remove any of this outfit without help will more than likely result in injury. As worked up and emotional as Obi-Wan is, his stubbornness has his limits. 

An hour is long enough. Too long, actually. But he takes it with a nod and they close the door behind them. 

He waits until he can no longer sense their presence, then steps deeper into the room. 

“You can come out now.”

Xanatos isn’t really trying to hide. He’s leaning against one of the wide pillars that separate Obi-Wan’s bedroom from the balcony, the darkness of the sky behind him lending him a shadow to lurk in. “You’ve got blood on your sleeve,” he says pleasantly. 

“It’s not mine.”

“Still got that temper I see,” Xanatos laughs. “I always did like that about you.” He lazily spins the hilt of a lightsaber in his hand. A sharp tug at Obi-Wan's soul pulls in time with the kyber crystal’s cry of distress. It, like Obi-Wan, can’t stand even the notion of Xanatos’s touch. “You’ve been a naughty boy, little brother.”

Obi-Wan reaches out a hand and calls the saber hilt to him. It soars through the air at high speed, colliding with his palm with bruising force. “We’re not brothers,” he says stiffly. 

“And that’s not the blade of a Jedi Padawan,” Xanatos pushes himself away from the pillar and clasps his hands behind his back. “Have we been practicing out of school?” He looks delighted. Xanatos had been a handsome man when they first met. He’s older than Jango now, that youthful spite and fire cooling into something that feels far more dangerous. Impulsiveness has hardened into patience. “What would Qui-Gon think?”

As a boy he’d idolized Qui-Gon. Even through his first rocky years on Stewjon, he’d blamed himself for his Master’s actions. He still does in many ways, knowing that he pushed the revered Master over the edge with his insolence and disobedience. But if ten long years of cutthroat politics have taught him anything, it’s not to give two-thirds of a kriff what anyone thinks of him, Qui-Gon Jinn included. 

“Why would I care?”

Xanatos blinks, his smile dipping with surprise and settling into something almost genuine. “You shouldn’t,” he says with conviction. He takes a moment - long enough that Obi-Wan is about to say something himself - then sighs. “I owe you an apology.”

Obi-Wan stares at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Xanatos says with a scowl. “What I did back then, when I -“

“Kidnapped me?” Obi-Wan snaps, still furious. For a moment he is angry with everyone. With Xanatos, and Qui-Gon, and the Jedi he still loves so desperately. With Pre kriffing Vizsla and his drunken threats, with Jango… “Locked me in a cell? Beat and starved me? Handed me over to pirates, knowing what they would do to me, Force, you _encouraged_ them!”

“For Qui-Gon,” Xanatos interrupts him. “It was all for Qui-Gon!”

“That makes it _so_ much better! I told you! I told you Qui-Gon would never come for me!”

The scowl fades from Xanatos’s face. “I thought you’d be the exception. I thought he’d care. That breaking you would break him.”

The absurdity is enough to make Obi-Wan laugh. “Well, you got that one wrong, didn’t you?”

Xanatos raises his arms in a magnanimous shrug. “Hence the apology.”

“You’re sorry your plan failed. Not for what you did.”

“Take what you can get, little brother.”

Obi-Wan’s thumb hovers over the ignition of his saber. It would be so easy to ignite it. Not so easy to fight dressed as he is, but they’ve already considered that in their training. Obi-Wan left the acrobatics of Ataru when he left the Jedi. Makashi had never interested him as a student, for all that he and his fellow Initiates learned the basics, but as an adult…

His tutelage under Dooku has been sporadic over the years, but he’s had extensive practice alone, and the elegant, footwork focused style suits both his lack of frequent combat exposure and his cumbersome wardrobe. 

Xanatos will find he gets far more of a fight than expected if he pushes. 

“If that’s all you came here to say-“ he starts. The conversation hasn’t gone in the way he’s expected, but he has no desire to continue it any longer. 

“It’s not,” Xanatos says lazily. Which… of course it’s not. Obi-Wan has never been that lucky. “But I doubt it’s as bad as you’re thinking.”

“I could just call for the guards,” Obi-Wan points out. “How exactly do you plan on explaining why you’re in my bedroom?”

“You invited me?” He says with a smirk.

“Try again,” Obi-Wan glares. “Because that’s not a story I’ll be backing up.”

“Of course it is,” Xanatos smiles serenely. “Unless you want to tell them the truth? We’re just two former Jedi, swapping stories and reliving the glory days? I’ll be sure to mention to your husband that your shiny new lightsaber looks a _lot_ like Master Dooku’s.”

“I doubt Jango will partially care about my saber design,” Obi-Wan says, not mentioning the fact that it’s unlikely Jango would let him live long enough to even notice. 

“I think he probably will,” Xanatos’s laugh is no longer light and charming, but dark. Ominous and threatening. “Given that our dear Grandmaster is the reason he hates Jedi so much in the first place.”

“What happened was tragic,” Obi-Wan says carefully, remembering Dooku's words back on Stewjon, “but it was a misunderstanding-“

“The battle? Maybe,” Xanatos nods. “The bit after, where he dragged your new husband through the corpses of his dead brothers and sisters and handed him over to his father’s murderer?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “That’s not what happened.”

“Did Dooku not tell you?” A bark of disbelieving laughter cracks Xanatos’s expression. “Did you never even wonder how your betrothed met his supposedly sticky end? Or did everyone do whatever they could to protect poor, fragile Obi-Wan from the truth?”

“That’s not what-“

“They sold him into slavery,” Xanatos says gleefully. “You spent what, six months in a cage? They had him in chains for _years_. Your precious Jedi sold your husband into slavery! And now you’re lying to him. Pretending to be what?” He looks Obi-Wan up and down scornfully. “Some kind of doll. A proper royal prince.” He stalks forward menacingly. 

Obi-Wan stands his ground more through shock than bravery. 

“When he finds out what you are,” Xanatos whispers, suddenly close enough that his breath is hot against Obi-Wan’s face. “You won’t just be another Jedi for him to hate. You’ll be the Jedi who fooled him into falling in love with him! The Jedi who shared his _bed_!”

“Is that why you’re here? To blackmail me?” Obi-Wan chokes in disbelief. Whatever Xanatos wants, he will take a slow death at Jango’s hands before giving him. 

“No no,” Xanatos shakes his head. “I have no intention of spilling your little secret. I just want you to know what you’re really getting yourself into. Like I said,” his eyes gleam with the same wicked madness Obi-Wan remembers from Bandomeer, “I owe you an apology.”

He steps away, his hands raised in appeasement. 

Obi-Wan hasn’t even realized he’s ignited his saber. 

“Tell Fett the truth, if you like. Tell him who I am. Tell him all the terrible, terrible things I did to you. Tell him who you are. What you are. It doesn’t matter. It’s already too late.”

“No,” Obi-Wan says stubbornly. “It’s never too late.” He’ll find a way to explain things, he'll find out what really happened that day, talk to Dooku, kriff, he'll talk to Master Yoda if that's what it takes...

“When the truth comes out, do you really think he’ll be able to keep the clans united? He’s already in love with you,” Xanatos says, pityingly. “Tell him, and break the parts of him he managed to scrape back together after Galidraan. Tell him, and take _everything_ from him.” He bows deeply and walks back towards the balcony. When he reaches the railings, he flashes a final smile over his shoulder. “My wedding gift, little brother.”

Then he vanishes into the darkness, leaving Obi-Wan clutching his lightsaber, his heart breaking. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of discussions about consent in this one! Because I love me some idiot boys who communicate (about most things...).

Shmi and Oné have been working together as Painter and Dresser for years now. On a good day they gossip and giggle as they work, distracting Obi-Wan from his own datawork all in the name of passing the time. When Obi-Wan is working in the labs and they are not in attendance, they spend several hours a week planning his future wardrobe and commissioning new items from Stewjon’s many artists. 

They know each other well. And they know Obi-Wan better. 

So today, their worry is palpable. After four aborted attempts to paint the final flower petal on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, Oné rocks back and throws his hands in the air. “Damnit!”

“Take your time,” Obi-Wan soothes. “It's not like he can start without me.” Which...technically he can, of course. Shmi, who has a mouthful of pearl topped hairpins, glares balefully at his poor sense of humor. 

“I don’t like any of this,” Oné says miserably. “Things were going so well!”

“They still can,” Obi-Wan soothes him. “Everything will be fine.”

“I thought we were past this,” Oné says, his mouth downturned. “When he was dead, and that awful Vizsla didn’t come for you. I thought that meant you’d be free of all this.”

“And I thought you liked Jango,” Obi-Wan teases. “Shoulders for days, no?”

“I did!” Oné protests. “Do. No. Did.” Obi-Wan and Shmi meet each other’s gaze in the mirror and share a smile. “When he came back, and when he was such a gentleman…" He sighs, misty-eyed. "I thought that would mean you could make your own choices, still.”

Obi-Wan takes his hand and squeezes gently. “I can,” he promises. “I am. You weren’t this upset before the consummation. What’s changed?”

Oné throws his brush down in an uncharacteristic tantrum. That, more than anything, indicates how truly upset he is. “That was before I was afraid he’d murder you!”

“He’s not going to mu-“

“No! Because you’re planning on distracting him with - with all this!” He flails a hand at Obi-Wan, who never gives much consideration to his level of nudity with either of them and yet suddenly feels utterly naked now Oné draws attention to it. “And I understand why! And I hate it! It’s not fair.”

“Life rarely is, _cara_ ,” Shmi steps in. “We make the best of it.”

“He won’t hurt me,” Obi-Wan says seriously. He knows that much. So long as Jango doesn’t learn the truth, Obi-Wan knows in his heart he needs never fear his _grādh_. If anything, it’s Jango’s obvious infatuation that Obi-Wan is counting on. Now Xanatos is in the picture, he has little time to waste if he’s going to soften his _grādh’s_ opinion towards the Jedi, and the fastest way to do anything so drastic is to keep him as happy and satisfied as possible. 

Xanatos lies. He always lies. Unless the truth is more devastating. 

Lies or truth, Obi-Wan has never felt more trapped, or more hopeless. The only way he can see out of this is through. If he tells the truth now, even if he survives, he loses any chance of winning Mandalore’s trust or affection. The very best case scenario is annulment, but without the protection of Mandalore’s army, his people remain vulnerable. They’ve been lucky so far, but Obi-Wan is by no means the first Stewjoni child to end up on the slaver’s block. They’re easy targets and valuable commodities on the black market. The only reason Obi-Wan escaped the kind of abuse many in his situation endured was to preserve how much the slavers could sell him for. 

Should Mandalore turn their back on their agreement, every low life in the Galaxy will be on Stewjon’s doorstep. 

He can’t risk it. 

“I’m not doing any of this unwillingly,” Obi-Wan promises. “I wouldn’t offend his honor by pretending otherwise.”

His stance hasn’t changed since he and Jango last spoke of it. He _is_ willing. He’s just…

“Please, try not to worry.” He leans forwards and presses a kiss to Oné’s temple. “Everything will be fine. I’ll take care of it.”

* * *

  
Jango braces himself to be struck dumb by another elaborate ensemble, but he's ill-prepared for what faces him when he opens the door to his _riduur_.

If Obi-Wan’s outfit during their consummation ceremony had teased the sight of bare skin, this one fully delivers. 

He's cloaked at first, cream silk pulled over his head, hiding his modesty for the short walk through the hallway between their rooms. When he pushes back the hood and unfastens the clasp, his hair tumbles loose in a waterfall of narrow braids, spiral curls, and pearl beads. A delicate circlet centers a pale rose stone on his forehead and anchors drapes of pearls on either side of his face. Yet more are wrapped tightly around his throat, a choker of gleaming white beads to highlight just how slender his long neck is. 

And that's somehow _not_ the thing that draws Jango's gaze. 

His wedding gown left his shoulders uncovered, but the combination of glass and paint made it clear touching was an ill-advised activity. Now, his shoulders have been painted with hundreds of delicate petals. They cascade down bare arms, tapering off just above his wrists, and blending seamlessly into the rose gold colored flowers that adorn the bodice of his gown. 

But it's the gown’s skirt that steals Jango's attention. Or rather the split that runs from its hem all the way up to the top of his thigh. His bare, unpainted thigh. 

“I….” Kriff, is that even _allowed_? “Kriff, is it warm in here? Are you warm?” Those few inches he has on Jango are all in his legs. He can - has - wrap them around Jango’s waist, and Jango knows just how silky they feel under his hands. 

In hindsight, it’s probably a good thing he’d been blindfolded back then or he would’ve embarrassed himself. 

“You have the fire on,” Obi-Wan points out, gesturing at the large fireplace that dominates the social space adjacent to Jango’s bedroom. 

“Oh. Yes. That’ll be it.” 

One day. One day he’ll be able to open his mouth around his riduur and not sound like a total kriffing fool. 

“Shall I turn it down?” Obi-Wan offers. When he turns towards it, a cascade of red curls bounce over his shoulder and Jango has to bite his tongue to muffle the wanton sound of need that’s clawing its way up his throat. 

He reaches out, catching Obi-Wan’s arm and pulling him back around. There’s firm muscle beneath his fingers, but Obi-Wan’s arm is as slender as the rest of him and looks even more so under Jango’s large hand. What the _kriff_ did Viszla say to him that enraged him to feats of near inhuman strength? Jango doesn’t think him weak - his skin might be soft, but it’s firm - and he knows well enough how much strength can hide in lean muscle, but even Jango would struggle to stab a fine blade through flesh and three inches of solid wood. Obi-Wan doesn’t even have much in the way of bodyweight to drive through additional force. 

“No,” Jango says, recovering some of his senses. “I don’t want you to be cold.” That’s why he’s put the fire on in the first place. Obi-Wan is cold when swaddled in heavy fabric, and in something as skimpy and fine as he is now it’s probably only the fire that’s keeping the goosebumps from his flesh. 

“You’ll have to keep me warm, then, won’t you?” He steps closer to Jango, his bare leg pressing against the leather of Jango’s pants and his palms sliding down to rest side by side over his heart. 

Jango wants that, of _course_ he does. He wants to keep Obi-Wan warm, wants to take him to bed right now and chase away even the memory of cold with his hands and his mouth, to lay himself between scandalously naked thighs, blanket him with his own body, and continue what they started the day before. 

He settles his hands on Obi-Wan’s waist, ignoring the temptation of bare flesh. Obi-Wan moves when Jango directs him, step after step backward, never once breaking eye contact, all trust given over to Jango’s care. When he’s finally where Jango wants him, a gentle shove sends him tumbling back onto the large couch in front of the fireplace. 

The blanket is already prepared, spread out over the cushions. The moment Obi-Wan falls, Jango moves. His _riduur’s_ not the only one with fast reflexes. It takes Jango only seconds to have him bundled from head to toe in soft, luxurious fabric and even less time to scoop him up - blankets and all - switch places, and settle back down with Obi-Wan draped across his lap. 

After a moment of wriggling, where Jango does nothing but hold him tight, Obi-Wan is able to get his chin over the edge of the blanket and glare balefully. “Is this some kind of Mandalorian kink no one has explained to me?”

“Kink?” Jango blinks. What’s kinky about snuggling?

“I’ve been in less thorough bondage,” Obi-Wan points out wryly. He kicks both his legs, tightly pinned together by fabric, in demonstration. Which… okay yes, he might’ve been a little overzealous with the blanket, but…

“You’re warm though, right?” He asks hopefully.

“Oh, most certainly.” Obi-Wan blows furiously at a curl that has fallen loose to tickle his cheek. Jango spares a hand to brush it back behind his ear. “I’m curious as to how you plan on fucking me like this.”

Okay, unpainted skin and crudeness combined only solidifies Jango’s resolve. “Not gonna fuck you,” he says, his cheeks burning. One day he is, maybe even one day soon, but not now. Not like this. Not after last night. 

Obi-Wan lifts a curious eyebrow. “I can hardly fuck you.” He wriggles again, his arms trapped. Jango is watching carefully for any sign of true fear or discomfort, but he’s getting nothing but that polished politician's sarcasm.

“No fucking!” Jango’s whole face is burning now. “You said we didn’t have to do anything.”

Something shifts in the depths of Obi-Wan’s eyes, but his mask still hasn’t slipped. “Well, I can’t exactly bake like this, either.”

“I need you to know,” Jango signs, “that I do love your smart mouth, and you fucking with me might actually be my favorite thing now.” Everyone Jango loves has the ability to come for his life _and_ his dignity, but none have managed it with quite as much grace as Obi-Wan. “But I’m also mad.”

The mask Obi-Wan hides behind drops so quickly Jango almost panics. The blue eyes that have been looking at him in mild exasperation grow wide and glassy. Glossy rose lips part in shock, and his whole body stiffens in Jango’s arms. 

“No, no no! Not with you. Well, okay, yes with you but-“ he sighs and carefully lifts Obi-Wan to settle on the couch beside him. No longer trapped in Jango’s arms, and with a little help, Obi-Wan is no longer completely encased in the blankets. The minute they slip from his shoulders, he’s grabbing them and holding them to his chest. 

“What did I do?” Obi-Wan asks quietly. 

While it’s easy to kick himself, Jango has far too much experience with plans gone awry to lose himself to the alarm of panic that’s blaring in his chest. Kneeling on the floor before him, Jango rests his hands on Obi-Wan’s blanket-covered knees, grounding them both. “You promised you’d tell me if you didn’t want this.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says warily, “and? I haven’t said anything, have I?”

No, and that’s the problem. 

“Tell me this-“ he carefully parts the blanket. In the blanket tussle, the skirt of his gown has ridden up, leaving most of his legs bare and vulnerable, “wasn’t some attempt to seduce me.”

Obi-Wan snatches the edges of his skirt and covers his legs furiously. “Clearly not a very effective one.”

 _“Kar’ika_ ,” Jango’s chest aches. “I don’t get all your customs - many of your customs, actually,” he shakes his head in self-recrimination, “but I think I’ve figured enough of this one out. Kriff, you’re so beautiful it makes me stupid just looking at you, but I’m not supposed to see you without the paint, right? You don’t have to compromise that because you think I need appeasing or something.”

Obi-Wan’s pale fingers curl over Jango’s, prompting him to look up and meet his gaze. “There’s nothing stupid about you, Jango Fett.”

“So don’t treat me like I am,” Jango says seriously. “I’ve never had sex before. You’ve never had sex with me before. We’re here, right now, because we have to be. One day I hope it’ll be because we want to be. _You_ want to be.” He reaches up and cups Obi-Wan’s cheek, hoping he can convey just how much he wants, and why it’s so important Obi-Wan feels the same. “I made you cry, yesterday. At our wedding.”

“No-“

“I did,” Jango hushes him gently. “We don’t really know each other yet. Don’t get me wrong, I know the sex is gonna be amazing, but only if we both really, really want it, right? Whether that’s next time, or a year’s time…”

“But not this time,” Obi-Wan says, a minute nod pressed into Jango’s hand. 

Jango rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I guess I’m greedy. Willing isn’t enough for me. If you’re not wildly enthusiastic about being in my bed, I’d rather we just….” He shrugs a little helplessly. He doesn’t even know if he’s explaining it right, just that he’s been thinking about it all day, and Obi-Wan’s appearance only punctuated his concerns. 

He’d said it, that he consents to sex with Jango, but seeing him sat next to Pre last night, Jango can’t help but wonder if he’d have said the exact same thing had he married Pre. 

And maybe that’s another difference between their people, he’s not sure, but when Obi-Wan says yes, it’s with his voice, not his eyes. 

Jango’s willing to wait. Hells, now he knows they _can_ , he’s even more determined to do this right. 

He loves Obi-Wan. He knows that already. His foolish, hopeful heart has no choice in the matter. 

He wants Obi-Wan to love him, too. 

And he’s willing to wait. Forever, if necessary. 

“Baked?” Obi-Wan asks, his smile small and genuine. 

“Kriff no, not tonight. You don’t wanna go anywhere near the kitchens for a few days, trust me.” 

Obi-Wan bites his bottom lip thoughtfully, and a small part of Jango kicks himself furiously for his unwillingness to take advantage. It’s easy to ignore, especially when Obi-Wan gathers up the edges of the blankets and holds them out on either side. “We could try that aggressive cuddling again?”

“Yes!” Jango blurts. “Wait, it wasn’t that aggressive.”

“I couldn’t move my toes, darling,” Obi-Wan snorts. “Come up here.” He pats the couch next to him, and Jango obediently sits. “You said you’d keep me warm.”

Breathless, Jango nods. “Yeah. Always.”

“Hmm.” Obi-Wan settles himself back in Jango’s lap, both legs dropped over Jango’s thighs and their shoulder’s pressed together. When he drags the blanket back over them both, Jango thinks he might combust at the combination of heat sources. “Fire, off,” Obi-Wan commands, plunging the room into a cozy darkness. 

Thoughtlessly drawing long limbs inwards, Obi-Wan rests his head on Jango’s shoulder and snuggles under the warmth of the blanket. This time, Jango doesn’t cage him in, just loosely loops his arms around him and keeps the blanket from slipping down his shoulder. 

“If anyone from Sundari asks,” he says tickling Jango’s throat with the warmth of his voice.

“Fucked you silly,” Jango nods seriously. “Eight times.”

Obi-Wan’s sudden peal of laughter sets his heart ablaze with more than just the warmth of the dwindling fire. “Oh darling, you really _are_ new to this.”

“Does that disappoint you?” Jango isn’t so much embarrassed about his lack of experience as he is wary of not pleasing his _riduur_. 

“Not in the slightest,” Obi-Wan hums contentedly. Jango tentatively lays his cheek against Obi-Wan’s head, careful not to disturb any of the pearls or beads. 

This, he thinks, might be the best way to spend the rest of his life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this isn't really an angsty chapter in terms of Jangobi content, there are some heavy topics covered. We continue the last chapter's discussion of consent, and Obi-Wan gives Jango and Myles a brief lesson in Stewjoni history that includes topics of war and genocide (a very, very long time ago, but still).
> 
> I've probably worried about this chapter more than any I've written before :|

The following morning, Myles finds Jango seriously contemplating breakfast. Specifically, what kind of breakfast he can feed his _riduur_ without killing him in the process. 

Spiced caf, maybe? It’ll warm him up for one, and he can always sweeten it a little if it’s too strong. He’s already cut up a couple of varos fruits and sprinkled the ripe, aromatic fleshy slices with a little cin for a gentle kick. Caf and fruit are probably all Obi-Wan need to start the day, but Jango is looking at back to back training and an afternoon in Parliament and needs something more hearty if he’s not going to get murderous by mid-afternoon. So, porridge it is. 

It’s early still, a little after fifth hour, and Obi-Wan is due to be meeting him shortly.

“If you’re looking for your _buir_ ,” Jango says when Myles enters the kitchens, “he’s gone to market and said to tell you that you’re a terrible son and that he wishes he’d adopted me instead.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Myles laughs and leans around Jango to steal a slice of varos.

Jango smacks him around the back of the head. “Off. That’s Obi-Wan’s.” He regrets speaking the second the words leave his mouth. 

Myles lights up in wicked delight, grinning so wide he gets dimples. “Oh yes, How is Obi-Wan? Or should I say… how _was_ Obi-Wan?” He shamelessly nudges Jango with his elbow and wiggles his eyebrows. 

“Nothing happened,” Jango says firmly, reaching for his own caf. “And even if it had I wouldn’t be talking to you about it.”

Myles waits until he takes a sip to pull a face. “Well, who else are you gonna talk to? Bo-Katan?”

In an attempt to tell Myles to go fuck himself, Jango inhales a mouthful of spiced caf and for a moment has to dwell on the bitter thought that he might die in his own kitchen at the hands of a hot beverage. “Bastard,” he wheezes, a hand braced on his knee. Kriff, even thinking about Bo-Katan and sex in the same sentence is enough to make his balls shrivel. 

Somehow looking the picture of innocence, Myles raises his hands. “I’m just saying. You can tell me! I won’t judge.”

“Nothing happened,” Jango repeats himself. “Really.”

“Huh,” Myles leans back. “Is he _not_ your type?”

“I think my type starts and ends with him,” Jango admits. Despite never giving much consideration to sex before, he’s certainly preoccupied with it now. “But it’s not right.”

“You’re married,” Myles points out. “Like… you have sexy fun times scheduled on an institutional level! It’s-“

“In our contract,” Jango nods. “Which he signed, and agreed to, and claims we don’t have to honor if I don’t feel like it.” He leans back against the counter and Myles sits down on one of the benches, serious and intent. 

“I can’t imagine ever not wanting to have sex, but okay. So he’s willing, and you’re…” he trails off, his dark eyes clouding over. “Wait, is this because of-“

“No!” Jango shakes his head. “No, this is not a trauma thing. Or… okay, maybe it is, but…” he pauses and rubs a hand over his eyes, suddenly exhausted. “He talked me through the contract. Why we have ‘set days’ for…”

“Fucking,” Myles supplies, far too seriously. 

“Yeah,” Jango rolls his eyes. “He says he’s willing. That he is consenting, but-“

“But you don’t believe him,” Myles concludes with an understanding nod. 

“I’ve seen far too many slaves smile and kneel and thank the hand that holds their chains,” Jango admits, “to ever want to touch him unless I am utterly convinced of his desire.”

They rarely talk about Jango’s time spent in chains. Myles loves him and will never ask for more than he’s willing to share, and Jango has never been able to stand the idea of being the subject of his pity. But it’s somehow easier to express himself through the lens of trying to take care of someone else. It’s not him saying ‘hey look, this bad thing happened to me’, but something adjacent. Anyone with a grain of sense can read between the lines, but he doesn’t have to say the words themselves. 

“You know it’s not the same thing, right?” Myles’s eyes are soft and kind, but there’s no pity in them. Sorrow, yes, even pain, but no pity. “You’re not holding his leash. He’s not a slave.”

“I know,” Jango says, “I know they’re not even close to being the same things, but I-“ he turns away, the words escaping him as quickly as they came. “Kriff.” Myles says nothing, giving him the time he needs in silence to pull himself back together. After a few moments, Jango fixes on a smile and turns back around. “Why are you harassing me at this time in the morning, anyway? I’m not making you breakfast.”

Myles has always been willing to play along and follow his cues whenever the shadows loom large in Jango’s heart. He holds his hand to his chest and gasps. “I see how it is! I’ve been replaced by a prettier model.”

“He’s smarter, too,” Jango nods. 

“I think I’d look better in those gowns, though,” Myles muses, sending Jango into a fit of horrified laughter. “But no, I’m actually here on more serious business.”

His abrupt slide back into professionalism kicks Jango out of his vaguely traumatic thought process and back to reality. 

They are brothers and will always default to affectionate teasing and mockery, but at the end of the day, Myles is _Alor’aan_ , and Jango his _Mand’alor_. 

They both straighten. Myles’s news is clearly not time-sensitive, but Jango still switches gear, finding that place of quiet in his mind that allows him to best focus and think. 

“I’ve had the first reports back from Corvie,” Myles says, “We left the Arrowheads in command of setting up a base of operations and they’re making good progress with the initial preparations.”

“Good,” Jango nods. Myles will visit in a month’s time to ensure everything is on track, and no doubt Jango will take Obi-Wan back to inspect things themselves before the end of the year. 

“I’ve also heard back from one of our ghosts,” Myles continues, growing grimmer. “They encountered a group of slavers operating on the edge of Stewjoni space.” 

There’s a sharp pain that shoots down Jango’s jaw when he clenches his teeth. “And?”

“Thirty-four captives rescued - they’re on their way to Corvie for treatment.”

“And the _hutuun_?” 

The softness in Myles’s gaze turns unflinching and cold. “They resisted. No survivors.”

Jango reads between the lines. They are honor-bound to take prisoners alive where possible, and always when offered a surrender. With slavers, they follow the letter of their code: one of the _hutuun_ breathing too deeply can and will be accepted as an indication of aggression, and the _verde_ will respond in kind.

“Good,” Jango nods. “Have them double their sweeps of the area. I want everyone from Coruscant to Wild Space knowing that an attack on Stewjon is an attack on Mandalore and will be responded to in kind.”

“ _Alor_ ,” Myles nods. He stands and starts to leave, only to encounter Obi-Wan at the kitchen entrance. “Good morning, Highness,” he says, dipping into a bow.

The intricate petals and revealing gown from last night have been replaced by an outfit that, by Obi-Wan’s standards, is thoroughly plain. A simple forest green gown with large bell-shaped sleeves and a cowl neck mean that only his face and hands are painted. The sweeping lines around his eyes and cheeks are all the same green as his clothes, and only a splash of crimson red across his lips provides any other color. Signs of the tumbling curls from last night are still evident in wisps around his face, but the rest of his hair has been pulled into a number of thick plaits and knotted close to his head. 

Today, he’s due to inspect Mandalore’s hydroponics and botanical departments, and this is apparently his idea of work attire. There’s something very understated and easy about it that makes Jango’s foolish heart clench. 

“Good morning, Myles,” Obi-Wan smiles, “are you joining us for breakfast?”

“He’s busy,” Jango shouts across the room. 

“I would love to, Your Highness,” Myles says, hiding a rude gesture at Jango behind his back. 

“Obi-Wan, please.” 

Jango knows Myles is messing with him, and he suspects Obi-Wan might be as well because Myles offers his _riduur_ an arm, escorts him to one of the kitchen tables, and holds out his chair like the civilized gentleman Jango knows for certain he isn’t. 

Myles then sits down next to him, chin resting on his fists, and apparently, Jango is now waiter, as well as cook. “Can I ask you a personal question?” Myles asks Obi-Wan.

Jango presses a cup of spiced caf into Obi-Wan’s hand and drops a fond kiss good morning to his forehead. The brightness of the smile he gets in return will keep him glowing for the rest of the day. 

“No,” Jango says to Myles, who ignores him. 

“Oh, this is wonderful!” Obi-Wan announces after a tentative sip of caf. He takes another eager mouthful and Jango fights the urge to preen. “Of course.”

Sonofa-

“Pre Viszla,” Myles starts, “I have wanted to stab him for a thousand years-“

“Myles,” Jango says warningly. 

“I’ll have whatever you’re having, thanks,” Myles says, deliberately obtuse. Which, fine. Jango turns to his pot of bubbling porridge and adds an extra helping of fireroot. 

“I really should apologize,” Obi-Wan sighs, “that was terribly rude of me.”

“Don’t you dare,” Jango scolds. “Pre is a kriffing bastard and he deserved it.”

“It’s true,” Myles nods. “I’m just… I would not bet on you being the first person to spill blood! What did he _say_?”

Obi-Wan cradles his caf between his hands, clearly enjoying the warmth as he absently worries his lower lip. He looks up at Jango, then down at his cup, before sighing. “He made a rather… disparaging remark about the nature of our relationship.”

Oh, Jango can only imagine. “I’m sorry,” he says genuinely, “I should have done something sooner.”

“And have every high ranking politician in Sundari think that attacking me is an easy way to get to you?” Obi-Wan asks, one eyebrow climbing in disbelief. “Granted, I’m usually more eloquent in my responses, but I won’t have anyone thinking that I present an easy route to hurting you. Besides,” he takes another sip, “you did say I was allowed to stab him.”

“I did,” Jango agrees, marveling both at Obi-Wan’s calm assessment of the situation and his concern for Jango. 

“It was beautiful,” Myles sighs. “You know someone leaked the security footage to the press? There are memes. It’s my favorite thing.”

“Have him watched,” Jango warns. “Men like Pre don’t take a bruising to their ego well.” He meets Myles’s gaze, then looks pointedly at Obi-Wan. Pre isn’t stupid enough to challenge Jango outright, not when the ink is still drying on their alliance, but that doesn’t mean he won’t find a way to make their lives difficult. 

There’s still the fact that Pre very nearly married Obi-Wan in Jango’s place. He feels nauseous just thinking about it. 

“ _Alor_ ,” Myles nods. 

Jango’s added some soft spiced rolls to the plate with the varos and sets the plate down in front of Obi-Wan. It’s hardly an exciting meal, but they can work up to something more flavorsome in time. 

“Thank you, Jango,” Obi-Wan says. “You know, you don’t have to feed me. I’m sure I can manage for myself.”

“Oh let him,” Myles says, holding out his hands eagerly for the bowl Jango trusts in them. “Feeding people’s his favorite thing. Second favorite thing. Shooting folk and feeding em.” He piles his spoon up high and shovels in a mouthful of porridge before immediately turning a brilliant shade of red. 

“Not in that order, I hope?” Obi-Wan teases. He shifts in his seat, changing angles so he’s facing more towards Jango as he takes the seat beside him. 

“How’s the porridge?” Jango asks, enjoying the tears that are already streaming down Myles’s cheeks. “Too hot?”

Myles lets out a wheezing breath that has Obi-Wan staring at him in alarm, then swallows dramatically. “Rather mild, I’d say,” he croaks.

Jango pointedly maintains eye contact and takes a mouthful of his own. Then another. 

It’s kriffing _hot_. It was hot before Jango doubled the spice. They’re both used to heat, but Jango spent years living off the kind of food you’d not feed vermin - he has a beskar lined throat and a stomach to match. 

Not to be defeated, Myles follows. 

They eat in furious silence, scowling at each other across the table while Obi-Wan nibbles on chunks of bread and watches with wide-eyed fascination. 

When several minutes have passed and sweat is streaming from both their brows, Myles finally breaks and takes a drink of water. “So another question,” he gasps, looking to Obi-Wan to distract from Jango’s victory. 

Obi-Wan looks like he desperately wants to fetch Myles a medic, but instead he only tilts his heads warily. “Yes?”

“The hair. Do you grow it long to wear the fancy braids, or do you braid it because it’s so long?” 

That’s… an interesting question, actually. Jango remembers Shmi’s explanation that each style holds some kind of symbolic meaning, but he’s only given passing thought as to the root of it all. 

“Would you like the long answer or the short one?”

“He needs time to recover before he can show his face in the barracks,” Jango snorts. 

Obi-Wan bites back a chuckle and inclines his head. “Alright. Well, what do you know of Stewjon’s history?”

“Not much I’m afraid,” Myles frowns. 

Jango shakes his head. “I know you’ve been pacifists for thousands of years,” he says. 

“Ten thousand, roughly,” Obi-Wan nods. “Before that, Stewjon was divided into two great societies. The Jonae - my ancestors - and the Stevv. We were neighbors, but rarely peaceful ones. The Stevv were great artists and composers, they painted their faces and favored long, elegant robes-“ he waves a hand at himself, gesturing at his own appearance. “The Jonae also had a great love of art, of mystic storytelling and song. They…weren’t so keen on the elaborate wardrobes, but they did wear their own versions of Stevv paint.”

“Like the statues in the Hall of Memories?” Jango asks, remembering the tall warriors, naked and adorned with spirals and symbols. 

“Yes! Exactly. Our peoples had very similar values and beliefs, but drastically different ideas in how to attain them. It’s difficult to say what really started the final war between us - the sources vary and there have been numerous times my ancestors have tried to change the narrative to be something a little less damning. All anyone can agree on is that negotiators were sent from the Old Republic to try and mediate, but there was a terrible misunderstanding between the leaders of the Stevv and the leaders of the Jonae.” A heavy sadness overtakes Obi-Wan’s expression. Jango reaches out and takes his hand. 

“The greatest tragedy in life is when both sides believe they are communicating, yet neither understands the other,” he says. “The same has happened here on Mandalore.”

“More than once,” Myles adds grimly. 

“It’s happened in many places,” Obi-Wan agrees, “but rarely with such devastating consequences as on Stewjon.” He sighs heavily and takes a breath. “The Stevv quite possibly did star the war, but the Jonae finished it in a truly terrible way.”

Jango rubs his thumb across the back of Obi-Wan’s knuckles. “What happened?”

“The Stevv always wore their hair long,” Obi-Wan explains. “They considered long hair the greatest sign of wisdom and maturity, for they would shave their heads when at war. On the eve of negotiations, the King of Jonae received a parcel - several feet of hair belonging, it was claimed, to the Stevvi Crown Prince. He took it as an act of betrayal and provocation, and, blinded by his hatred, unleashed a terrible biological weapon against the Stevv. Millions were killed - most of them civilians.”

“Kriff,” Myles breathes. 

“The Jonae were horrified at what had been carried out in their name and overthrew the King and his family, but the damage was already done. A whole people, all but wiped out. The Jonae swore then to never again raise a weapon, even in their defense, fearing a repeat of such evil. Whether or not you believe that the surviving Stevv joined with the Jonae of their free will, or because they had little other choice… people are still arguing that one, ten millennia later. But the result is Stewjon as it stands now. Attempts were made to honor the Stevv in our culture, and over the years they have become something else entirely. We wear our hair long in remembrance. We wear the clothes we wear because they are beautiful, and painful, and if all our effort is spent in existing in and creating a world where life is treasured above all else, we can be sure to never again let the hatred in our hearts go so dark.”

He falls silent, and they sit under the weight of Obi-Wan’s words. 

That something so beautiful hides something so dark, so ugly, leaves Jango teetering on the edge of a place he’s not yet equipped to visit. Obi-Wan’s story, divorced from anyone Jango knows by thousands and thousands of years, feels far, far too personal. 

Then Myles surprises him. “Your people refuse to fight, even to defend themselves… but drown baby _jetii_?”

Obi-Wan’s expression shifts into something sharp and unpleasant, even as Jango starts to try and change the topic. 

“And Stewjon is not without crime,” Obi-Wan says darkly. “Fear is an insidious thing. Once we allow it to turn our hearts to hate, even the very best intentions can be made a mockery of themselves.”

“Sometimes hate is all we have,” Jango says quietly. 

Obi-Wan squeezes his hand tightly and looks at him, unflinching. “Then what is left when everything you hate is dead?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use the 'chooses not to use archive warning' tag for a reason. If there's something you feel needs adding to the additional tag list, please let me know. I'm happy to add any tags you feel necessary and I would much rather do that than find out months later that I've upset a large number of people. I'm honestly devastated that I'm apparently such a point of controversy because of this. I don't want to hurt or upset anyone.

It takes around a week before the seven-hour difference between Stewjon’s daily cycle and Mandalore’s really starts to kick in. 

Where once Obi-Wan had long - if more leisurely paced days - he’s now having to wake anywhere between second and third hour just to be ready to join Jango for first meal. Jango likes to eat before he joins the _verde_ for training, which means Obi-Wan has to be ready and presentable before fifth hour. With little else to do but work, Obi-Wan then sends Oné and Shmi to their beds and allows Isabet or one of her men to escort him to the Scientific Plaza on the other side of the city. 

Twelve hours of gently convincing a group of very offended scientists that he’s neither there to take their jobs, nor an uneducated politician trying to throw his weight around, then it’s back to the palace to change before joining Jango for late meal. They talk and share stories on nights when Jango has the time to spare, and on others, Obi-Wan spends the evenings with Myles, Isabet, Llats, or some combination of all three. 

The work is trying, but the company pleasant, and he’s usually able to retire around tenth hour - which is often when Jango returns from his evening’s work. 

If he were able to simply slide into bed and get a good four hours sleep, it might not be so trying, but it takes Oné and Shmi at least an hour to help him undress and remove his paint. If he’s lucky, he makes it to bed with a promise of three hours of sleep. On days like this, he decides to double up on the caf and take a much-needed bath instead. 

With the Force, he can keep going on very little sleep. He’s survived far worse during some of Corvie’s high festivals, when parties last for days and he’s lucky to see his bed for more than a dozen hours all week, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t gladly claim another hour’s sleep. Still, he sees little of Jango now they are both falling into some semblance of a routine, and he finds himself craving every moment of his grādh’s company he can get. Perhaps, when Stewjon's scientists properly join them, things will be easier. 

So despite it being twelfth hour, Obi-Wan sinks down below the steaming surface of a hot bath and lets the salted water sap the ache from his bones. 

Jango’s promised to take him to Keldabe in the next few tendays. He needs to go to settle yet another argument that has broken out in Parliament about the Mand’alor’s ancestral seat, and instead of going alone, he wants Obi-Wan besides him. 

Anything is better than being left behind, and Obi-Wan is honestly curious to see the ancient city. He’s also extremely interested in Jango’s promise of visiting the hot springs under the city. 

By nature, Obi-Wan is always cold, for all that he rarely notices it. A perk of Stewjoni biology. One that Jango seems driven to accommodate. Every morning, Obi-Wan is presented with spiced, hot caf. His assistants in the lab seem to be under the impression that if he doesn’t have a hot drink to hand at every moment he might just wilt like a flower, and even Myles suffers in silence every evening when they congregate in the palace’s Hall of Fire. 

It’s more than a little mortifying, being so coddled, but every attempt to address the subject is met by Jango’s unsubtle deflections. 

‘Let him fuss’, seems to be Myles’s advice. 

His _grādh_ is, Obi-Wan is coming to understand, a caretaker by nature. He’s restless until he knows the people he’s with are happy and content. 

It’s utterly endearing. 

Most things about Jango are endearing. 

He’d been willing to share Jango’s bed before, swinging back and forth between tentatively eager and practical acceptance of his side of their agreement.

Now Jango has made it clear he has _no_ expectations, that dial seems firmly fixed in one direction. 

The most anyone in Obi-Wan’s situation can really ask for is a lover who is kind. Things are what they are, and love, should it blossom, is a wonderful bonus. It’s not expected, nor anticipated. 

But Xanatos, curse him, is right: Jango is in love with him. Obi-Wan can feel it every time he is close, a warm, soothing pulse of affection and adoration that’s doing little to help stop the tentative blossom of reciprocation that grows in Obi-Wan’s heart. 

Falling in love with Jango is dangerous. It might kill him, and it will certainly break both their hearts if he’s not careful.

But it’s easy. 

Closing his eyes and sinking further down in the tub, the water laps at the base of his skull, wetting the strands of hair that have escaped the ties keeping it in place. 

There are only a few days now until Obi-Wan is to go to him again. Wildly enthusiastic, Jango said. 

He’s getting there, Force, he’s getting there. 

Jango might enjoy taking care of him, but Obi-Wan takes his pleasure in much the same way, and he _wants_ …

The sound of shattering glass - and a quiet curse - startles him out of his pleasant daydreams. 

“Shmi?” He calls, already knowing it’s not Shmi. He reaches out with the Force, searching for her familiar presence and finding no sign of either her or Oné.

Annoyed beyond belief, Obi-Wan pulls his robe from the side of the tub and hastily draws the fabric over his wet limbs. It sticks to his skin, irritating him further. “What is the point in even having guards if people just keep letting themselves in through my damn balcony?” Grumbling, he stalks barefoot from the tub into the main suite.

If Xanatos has broken in again, Obi-Wan is stabbing him, risks be damned. 

Throwing back the privacy screen separating the two rooms, he readies himself for yet another round of mental sparring. 

And promptly loses his mind. “ _Hondo_!?”

The list of people he’s expecting to find in his room starts with Xanatos and ends with an overzealous Mando. A Weequay pirate doesn’t feature anywhere in between. 

Hondo spins around, throwing his arms out wide in exuberance as he goes, and lets out an excited, “Obi-Wan!”

“What are you _doing_ here?” Obi-Wan starts to yell, then hastily lowers his voice. There’s no permanent guard at his door, but Isabet and her team make frequent sweeps, and for all that he’s happy to shake some answers out of Hondo, he’s not about to risk a shoot first, questions later kind of situation. 

“Would you believe I’m here to rescue you?” Hondo asks, setting a hand on his hip. 

Obi-Wan stares at him, all eloquence abandoned at the sheer absurdity he’s facing. “What?”

“I know, I know,” Hondo sighs, “believe me, I said the same thing! Jango Fett is an honorable man, I said. Very good cook, I said! But a deal is a deal and I did promise to protect you.”

“Ten years ago!” Obi-Wan hisses. “From the slavers _your_ captain sold me to!”

“I did apologize-“ Hondo says hastily.

“And you helped Dooku find me,” Obi-Wan adds, knowing full well that Hondo’s sudden shift in morality is the only reason Obi-Wan was ever found. Hondo hadn’t been in charge of the pirates who’d participated in Obi-Wan’s abduction from Melida/Daan - if anything, he’d been the kindest person on the ship - but he’d somehow grown fond of Obi-Wan and taken exception to selling him the way his Captain had. 

“And now I am Captain!” Hondo says cheerfully. “No more slavers!”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Obi-Wan finds himself nodding. “But we are completely square. Whatever debt you think exists between us -“

“Not at all!” Hondo looks affronted by the mere suggestion. “A life debt is a life debt.”

Life debt? _What life debt?!_

“You didn’t swear a life debt to me!” Obi-Wan groans. 

Hondo wags his finger. “You were not there!” He says, as though that makes all the difference. Or explain why he’s here, on Mandalore, in Obi-Wan’s room, when they haven’t seen each other in a decade. 

Or what Jango has to do with anything. 

“Hondo!”

“Still have that fine temper!” Hondo beams. “That’s why you were my favorite captive.”

“I’m this close to losing it,” Obi-Wan threatens, “and dropkicking you off the balcony.”

“Really now!” Hondo crosses his arms across his chest. Aside from a slightly more impressive hat, he’s not changed a bit. Obi-Wan has managed to go years without thinking too much about that horrible year in his childhood, and now the reminders seem constant. “Is that any way to speak to the man here to rescue you?”

Mirroring him, Obi-Wan crosses his own arms. It occurs to him that he’s having this whole conversation with no paint, his hair loosely piled up in a very messy knot. He should be embarrassed - mortified even - and he would be, were it anyone else. Perhaps it’s simply that Hondo has seen him at his very lowest point? What necessity is there for a mask when the person you’re speaking to already knows what hides beneath it?

“I don’t need rescuing,” Obi-Wan says, finding his calm and reeling it back in. Hondo has always been excitable, and he’ll only continue to be if Obi-Wan encourages it. “Where did you even get the idea that I did?”

Hondo lifts his arms and shrugs. “Honestly? I’m merely the pilot. Your Count said something… I wasn’t paying much attention…something about Fett murdering you horribly?”

“What?” Obi-Wan demands. Count, Hondo says… “Dooku?”

Hondo snaps his fingers. “Yes! Now, as I said, Jango is a very good friend of mine. Acquaintance. Comrade.” He searches for the right word, then appears to give up. “And I said to your Count, I said ‘Count, a more honorable man you’d not find in this sector or any other’. Then he said - “ he clears his throat and stands straighter, trying and failing to adopt Dooku’s dignified mannerisms “‘Excellent and Most Brilliant Captain Hondo-‘“

“He did not say that,” Obi-Wan interrupts, 

“I’m paraphrasing. Ahem. ‘Most Brilliant Captain Hondo, my young friend is, in fact, a Jedi, albeit a little one, and as you know, The Very Honorable Jango Fett is no fan of the Jedi.’” He waves his finger around again. “Which is when I said-“

“Hondo!” Obi-Wan’s gaze darts back towards the door, terrified that someone has overheard them. “I appreciate your concern,” he says carefully, “but really, I’m _fine_.” 

“He said you’d say that!” Hondo chuckles. “Too willing to sacrifice yourself, he said. Then I said that you’d probably not come with us willingly.”

“You’re not wrong there,” Obi-Wan agrees. “In fact, you really should leave. Even if you are…comrades…. I can’t see him being all that understanding should anyone find you here.”

“And I shall!” Hondo promises. “Once I have rescued you.”

They’re going around in circles. “And do what?” He asks, not entirely sure why he’s humoring the creature of chaos in front of him. “Where _exactly_ do you think you can take me that Jango wouldn’t find me?”

“You’d make an excellent pirate!”

Oh, for the love of…

“You did _not_ break into my bedroom to deliver a recruitment spiel,” Obi-Wan says irritably. They’ve had this conversation before. More than once. “I am not becoming a pirate!”

“It’s an excellent way of life,” Hondo defends, “and a great benefits package! We have dental now.”

“Hondo?”

“Hmm?”

“Get out.”

“You’re coming with me?” Hondo asks hopefully.

Too hopefully. “No!” Obi-Wan exclaims. 

Behind his goggles, Hondo’s expression falls. “Then I am very sorry to have to do this-“ 

He pulls out his blaster, and what little sense of humor Obi-Wan has clung to goes right out of the window. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps. This has gone on long enough. “You can’t honestly think I’ll just walk out of here with you?”

“I had hoped,” Hondo shrugs. He taps his comm and lifts his wrists to speak into it. “My grumpy friend, It is with _great_ pain that I reluctantly admit you were right.”

A moment later, the door to his room bursts open. The cloaked figure that strides through it is known to him, isn’t a threat, isn’t-

Force, he was in the hallway. Has anyone seen him? Is anyone hurt? 

He rushes towards the door - towards the figure - because if _anyone_ sees him, if they know he’s here, Obi-Wan’s death will be the very least of his worries. 

“What have you done?” he demands, pushing past Dooku and into the hallway. 

“What was necessary,” Dooku responds, his voice low and his stance grave. 

Sure enough, one of the guards lays slumped against the wall. He’s not dead, Obi-Wan knows he’s not dead... 

He’s barely through the doorway when Isabet turns the corner at the end of the corridor, and time slows down. 

Her reflexes are sharp. She draws her blaster and shouts for backup the exact second Dooku grabs a hold of his arm and pulls him back inside the suite. 

Obi-Wan isn’t about to be manhandled by anyone, not even Dooku. He shoves his way free with both hands and a warning Force push. It’ll be seconds only before Isabet makes it to the door, and then what? She won’t let Obi-Wan leave with Dooku and Hondo, nor will they let her stop them. 

“ _I was handling it!_ ” Fury shakes him where he stands. 

Dooku says nothing. He only steps fowards, his arms outstretched, as if he honesty thinks Obi-Wan will turn to him for comfort when he’s-

The stun hits right between his shoulders. 

He falls into those outstretched arms, Dooku’s mind emerging from the shadows that have hidden him and brushing soothingly against Obi-Wan’s own. 

Consciousness remains just long enough for the world to spin around him as he’s lifted over Dooku’s shoulder, then fades away to the sound of blaster fire.


	23. Chapter 23

By the time Jango manages to free himself from the cesspit of despair that is the latest Parliamentary session, only the skeleton staff of the night shift are on duty at the palace. 

He can wake one of the kitchen staff - or Jag if he feels suicidal enough - for something to eat, but he’s tired enough to wait until morning. Breakfast with Obi-Wan is the only way he wants to start his day from now on. Good morning kisses and warm, spice-scented smiles. Obi-Wan helps him make juice now, and they stand side by side, their arms brushing, Obi-Wan’s painted fingers occasionally touching his own. 

“If I could just-“ Jango stops mid-sentence and mimes choking someone. “Is that an option? Can I do that?”

Beside him, equally as weary, Myles shrugs. “I mean sure, but I think it would upset some people.”

“No one would miss him,” Jango grumbles, once again imagining Pre Vizsla’s neck in his hands. “They’d probably thank me!”

“Kryze probably would,” Myles snorts. “Did you see her face while he was talking?” He shudders. “I’ve seen less toxic poisons.”

“Ugh.” Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Jango checks the time. It’s officially far, far too late to still be working. He should be in bed, or at the very least curled up with his _riduur_ in front of the fire. “Have you heard from Isabet?”

The guards on duty salute as they pass and make their way from the publicly accessible areas of the palace into the private residences. 

Myles has to physically drag him around a pillar as he closes his eyes and yawns. 

It’s too late to check in on Obi-Wan himself, but he worries that, outside of breakfasts, he’s hardly spent any time with him since the wedding. They’re both apparently workaholics. 

“Aye,” Myles chuckles, keeping his hand on Jango’s arm in case he does something embarrassing like faceplant on the floor. It’s happened before. “She says she’s turning in for the night, there’s a guard on duty, and she’s never playing cards with your _riduur_ ever again.”

“He cheats,” Jango agrees. 

“Does he? Or is he just better at it than you?”

That’s a betrayal of the worst sort, Jango thinks, scowling out of the corner of his eye. It’s probably not wrong, but that’s hardly the point. “You’re a-“

Both his and Myles’s personal comms explode with incoming alerts just as the internal palace alarms awake in a cacophony of noise. The lights, dimmed for the evening, blare brightly as lockdown security measures kick into place. 

It’s a security system that, though regularly tested, has never been triggered in Jango’s lifetime. 

Through decades of Civil War, no one has ever breached the sanctity of either Sundari or Keldabe’s royal palace. 

Jango and Myles both leap to different conclusions. 

Jango’s first and only thought is of Obi-Wan. He springs forward, his heart in his throat, and makes for the grand staircase that will lead him up to the private bed chambers. 

He gets all of three paces before Myles clamps both hands on his shoulders and lifts him clean off his feet. There’s a brief, furious second of a tussle that ends with him doing the exact same thing - rushing in search of his _riduur_ \- only this time he’s behind Myles. 

Jango doesn’t spare the time to be angry with him: it’s Myles’s job to go through any door before Jango. 

He only focuses on what matters. 

A moment later, the doors behind them burst open and they are joined on the stairs by Llats’s emergency response unit. They, like Myles, will attempt to handle the source of the alarm before Jango if they are given the chance. 

He’s no longer a general leading _verde_ from the front, but a figurehead of government. The freedoms and risks he once had are no longer his to take. 

But that doesn’t mean he’s going to just fall back and let them be the first on the scene. If Obi-Wan is in danger, Jango needs to reach him first, and if he’s not, then the arrival of a fully armed contingent of soldiers will only frighten him. 

Myles breaks out onto the landing first, Jango only a split second behind. They round the corner to the private chambers together, blasters drawn by the sounds of activity ahead. 

There are a half dozen guards outside Obi-Wan's bedroom. Two of them, one with a medic’s stamp on his arm, is tending to the prone body of one of Isabet’s men. 

If he’s on duty…

This time, Myles can’t stop him. Jango charges forward, pushing him to one side in the process. _“Obi-Wan!”_

“Alor-“ one of the guards moves to intercept him. Jango darts out of his grasp.

“Obi-Wan!”

Stumbling into Obi-Wan’s bedroom, he steps on the crushed petals of one of the many plants he arranged to have brought to his _riduur’s_ chambers. The white blossoms are dirty and torn, earth and shattered pottery surrounding them in a halo. 

_No... no, no, no…._

Myles curses loudly behind him, both hands coming out to steady Jango as he rocks backward in horror. 

“Obi-Wan?” Jango calls weakly, already knowing that he’s gone. He’d never leave his beloved plants in such a state, and he’d be mortified at the notion of causing any kind of fuss. 

He should be stepping out from behind the privacy screen, stern and annoyed at the invasion of his sanctuary. 

Instead, _verde_ swarm his private bedrooms, weapons drawn. 

Jango sucks in a devastated breath and forgets how to let it back out again. 

“Alor!” Isabet runs over, breathless behind her buy’ce. 

“What the kirffing hells happened?” Myles demands, circling around Jango. “Where is the Prince?”

The words wash over Jango with little impact. He bends low and collects the fallen blossom from underfoot. Cupped carefully in his palm, he presses it to his chest, trying to shelter it from further brutality. 

“I came back to drop off a holo the Prince and I had discussed,” Isabet shakes her head. “I found Den, the guard assigned to this floor, unconscious outside His Highness’s rooms and sounded the alarm. By the time I reached his room two assailants were carrying him over the balcony.”

“How the _hells_ did anyone past perimeter security?” Myles demands. 

Isabet removes her _buy’ce_ and taps on her wrist. “I think I can answer that-“ she says, her face set in an expression of fury that matches Myles. 

The feed from her security cam hovers above her wrist, replaying in perfect clarity the moments leading up to Obi-Wan’s abduction. There are only a few moments. A few short seconds between normality and chaos. 

Jango watches in silence.

He knows the words he needs to say. The action that is to be taken. None of them make their way past his throat. He can only stare at the footage Isabet displays, his head and his heart wrenched violently out of his body and thrown in a whirlwind spiral back to bloody fields and shrieks of agony. 

The face staring back at him from over Obi-Wan’s shoulder, the figure who puts his hands on Jango’s _riduur_ and pulls him away from safety, is the face that has haunted Jango’s nightmares for a decade. 

This…this whole thing has to be another one. Another nightmare. He’s exhausted and dreaming and any second now he’ll wake up drenched in sweat and shaking. It’s the only explanation. How else could his two greatest fears collide? Why else would the _jetii_ be here, in Jango’s home, with his _riduur_ , if not because of a nightmare?

Myles steps up. “Lockdown the city,” he barks. “Close the biodome-‘

“It’s done,” Isabet says quickly. “Spaceports and overland are shut down and I’ve got patrols doing sweeps of the surrounding area. The security wall around the palace lock the second the alarm is triggered - and they only just got away. They can’t have gotten far. We _will_ find them.”

“That’s assuming their intention was an abduction,” Llats says, stepping through the doorway and immediately assessing the situation, “not assassination. They might not have been here for the Prince.”

Jango’s heart still hasn’t resumed beating, but Llats’s words slowly sink in. That makes more sense, surely? The _jetii_ was here for him. To finish what he started and failed to complete at Galidraan. Obi-Wan is innocent in this regardless, but in no world can he be the _jetii’s_ actual target. 

Surely even _jetii_ have more honor than that?

No. No, of course they don’t. 

The barb-lined tendrils of hopeless despair crawl their way up his throat, choking a sob before it can form. 

He decides it doesn’t matter. 

Before anyone can stop him, he has Isabet up against the closest wall. “You were supposed to protect him!” 

There’s no fear in her expression, only unflinching resolve. “I failed you, _Mand’alor_. Take my head, but I beg you to do it after I have helped find your _Alor’riduur_.”

“Why should I trust you?” Jango snarls. She had one job! Jango’s trusted her with the most precious charge he has, and she let the _jetii_ take him…

“I nearly died for you once,” Isabet says quietly. She makes no move to free herself from Jango’s hold, no attempt to defend or protect herself. “I would not die yet, knowing that I have failed you, Alor.”

“We know him, Alor,” Myles reaches out tentatively. “Captain Reau would’ve been killed if she’d been any closer.”

Myles is right, of course. She would die for Jango, and she’d do the same for Obi-Wan. She very nearly did. 

Jango releases her and flings himself away, terror and rage sinking so far into his skin that muscles cramp and protest the sharp needles of fury. The world around him bleeds, but through the sickly haze, he finds himself focusing on one thing. 

One small, innocuous detail that means very little in the grand scheme of things, but that lights a flame under the ion charge that is his anger and sees the world explode into a kaleidoscope of hatred. 

Footprints, almost dry, leading a wet trail from the bathing area at the far side of Obi-Wan’s bedroom. He’d been bathing. Relaxed and vulnerable in the one place he’s supposed to be the safest.

He replays the footage Isabet recorded in his mind, this time turning his attention from the _jetii_ and focusing instead on his _riduur_. 

Barefaced. His hair falling loose and wild around his face. Wrapped in a robe that offers little in the way of warmth or protection. 

It’s Jango’s first proper look at his husband’s face, an image seen by Isabet, by Myles and Llats, and every security agent working to find him. 

The _jetii_ once forcibly removed Jango’s armor, stealing his pride, his dignity, and his honor. Now he has done the same to Obi-Wan.

He turns back to Myles and his Captains. “Summon the Council.”

“They’ll likely be sleeping,” Llats warns.

The final threads of Jango’s control snap. “Then wake them _up_!” He screams. “Wake them up, then get me a call through to Coruscant.”

“It’s done,” Myles swears. 

Then, to Isabet.

“You’ll have him back,” she swears before he even says anything. “Or you’ll have my head.”

“I don’t want your head,” Jango growls. The familiar weight of the dark saber rests in one hand, the broken flowers in the other. He has no memory of drawing the weapon. “I want _his_.”

He’ll take it, too. 

Obi-Wan trusted the _jetii_. He defended them. Protected them. The betrayal of his _riduur’s_ trust is almost as devastating as Jango’s own loss. How dare they sully that kindness and compassion? How dare they repay his protection by dragging him into a battle he has no part in? 

This is a declaration of war. 

Mandalore is unified. It is stronger than it has been in centuries. 

Jango learned his lessons from Galidraan. 

He will not rest, nor allow others to, until Obi-Wan is safe in his arms once more. 

And then...

Then he will answer that declaration in kind. 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: there are some more detailed mentions of Obi-Wan's time in captivity. 
> 
> Other than that, this chapter was so much fun to write!

Obi-Wan wakes up and solidifies his headache by headbutting Hondo right between the eyes. 

The Most Brilliant Captain Hondo stumbles back blindly, his arms windmilling as he tries to focus. He’s lucky Obi-Wan isn’t with it enough to put much in the way of force behind the blow. 

“Good morning to you, too,” he says nasally, scrunching his face up to shake off the pain. 

Obi-Wan sits abruptly, his head pounding and his stomach churning, his skin bristling in the uncomfortable way that only ever comes after being stunned. Before he can make it fully upright, a sharp tug pulls on his wrists and he furiously blinks a set of high-end Force prohibiting cuffs into focus. Of the many Force-inhibitor designs, these are probably one of the more benign ones, only triggering when a prisoner attempts to use the Force. They come with none of the cold, frightening nausea and emptiness that many other designs carry, but still manage to be cruel in new, painful ways. 

Obi-Wan can _feel_ the Force, just out of reach, and the inability to use it to smack Hondo around the head again is infuriating. 

“Where is he?” He demands, drawing his knees up to his chest and tugging furiously at the cuffs keeping him fastened to the bunk. A warm blanket has been tucked over him, and looking around he can see that he’s in a small cabin, not a cell. That doesn’t stop him from raging. “Hondo, if you don’t unfasten these cuffs I swear on the Stars, I will batter you to death with that stupid hat!”

Hondo removes the hat in question and clutches it to his chest. “You are unhappy, I understand this, but there is no need to be cruel!”

“ _Unhappy_?” Obi-Wan’s dry throat almost screeches in pain as he shouts. “I am not _unhappy_ , Hondo, I am fucking furious! Do you have _any_ idea what you’ve done? And don’t you dare say ‘ _you_ _rescued me_!” He doesn’t give Hondo the chance to even start to justify himself.

“You are tired, I think,” Hondo says hastily, fixing his hat back in place and squaring it up neatly. “Nasty business, being shot. You need sleep! I promised I would check on you; I have checked! Do not let my presence keep you from your nap!”

He ducks out of the door, careful not to put his back to Obi-Wan, which is kriffing ridiculous because _Obi-Wan_ isn’t the one with the habit of shooting people!

“Hondo, don’t you-“

The door closes with a miserable crunch. The hydraulics need greasing, he said that years ago…

Force. He’s on Hondo’s ship. How the _hell_ did they get him past the guards? 

How long has he been unconscious? 

Jango…

His heart is pounding, anger making it hard to focus on anything but the helplessness of his situation. 

Dooku was _seen_. Isabet saw them both, which means Jango has likely seen the footage by now. 

He doesn’t know who Dooku is. He might not even know he’s a Jedi. All he’ll know is that Obi-Wan is missing. Palace security is breached. His promise of protection was a lie. 

It’s not his fault, Obi-Wan knows that better than anyone, but will anyone else see it that way? Will Obi-Wan’s father, if word gets back to Stewjon? Will the likes of Pre Vizsla and Bo Katan? Will they take advantage of the situation?

A sharp, painful tug at the cuffs gives way to a frustrated cry. He leans back against the bunk and tries to find his focus. 

There’s always a soft, barely perceivable thrum of power and noise that reverberates through the walls and furnishings of a ship when it is at lightspeed. He can feel the ship’s pulse, powerful and strong, but not that distinctive vibration. They’re not grounded, but they’re not at lightspeed, either. 

Good. That’s good. It gives him something to work with. 

He’s not foolish enough to think he can beat Dooku in a fight, not without inflicting serious, possibly permanent damage. He won’t do that - can’t do that. He knows this, all of it, is born from the best of intentions, but it’s also exactly why the Jedi teach against forming attachments. 

Dooku has let his fear for Obi-Wan, his fear _of_ Jango, override his duty to the Jedi, and apparently his entire sense of reason. 

Trying to talk him around might be an option, but a costly one. He needs to get back to Jango _before_ anything happens to him. 

Obi-Wan refuses to be a pawn in his husband’s downfall.

Both his wrists are cuffed together and connected to one side of the bunk. He has to slide awkwardly off the edge of it, kicking aside the blanket in order to free himself. From there, his legs twisted beneath him and his back to the side of the bunk, Obi-Wan is able to angle his head to within reach of his hands. 

Dooku might not be willing to spare Obi-Wan the dignity of paint or adequate attire, but he’s otherwise a consummate gentleman, and he will have refused to let anyone touch Obi-Wan in any way while unconscious. This means that his hair, now wild and mostly loose from its knot, is still hiding at least one of the pins he fastened it up with. 

Two, apparently. 

Pulling one free with difficulty, he then sets about picking the lock on the cuffs. 

There’s a reason the slavers on the Nexus welded the chains they forced him into: he’s very, very good at picking locks. 

Within seconds, the latch clicks open. He sends a silent whisper of thanks through the Force to Cerasi for her patient lessons, then makes quick work of wrapping his hair back up into another knot. 

Without the warmth and protection of the blanket, and without anything in the way of clothes but a flimsy robe, it’s freezing in the cabin. The memory of Jango’s patient attempts to chase the chill from his limbs is an ache he can’t blame on the cold, spurring him into action. 

He might’ve never had the chance to fully explore this ship the last time he was on it, first as a captive, then sick and frightened, but he does know its layout. He spent weeks listening to the sound of footsteps on metal, tracking the comings and goings of the people on board as they moved about their business. 

It gives him a rough idea of where he is now. 

So instead of forcing open the door and slipping into the corridor, Obi-Wan slams his open palm into the control panel on his side of the door, shattering the console. Then he drags the bunk across the floor and wedges it firmly in the inside doorframe. It won’t stop anyone from entering in the long term, but it will buy him time. 

From there, it’s a simple matter of using the frame of the bunk for leverage, then applying a gentle nudge of the force to the bolts fastening the ventilation grate over the door in place. 

Crawling through air shafts was a lot easier when he was a teenager, but he doesn’t stop, even for a second. 

The longer he is here, the further away he is being taken from Jango. 

It’s easy to get turned around when all he can see is darkness. Without the Force to guide him, Obi-Wan would be shuffling blind from grate to grate, with only the smallest slivers of light to direct his path. 

He reaches out with his other senses - listening for the telltale sound of engines, and the voices that hastily force him into stillness; feeling along the cold metal shaft around him until it slowly starts to heat up, a sure sign that he’s nearing machinery; smelling the air that circulates through the vent and following the trail of oil and fuel. On a ship the size of Hondo’s, it only takes him five minutes to find his direction, and another five to crawl his way cautiously towards the vent he needs. 

There, with thin slivers of artificial light cast across his face, he listens and waits. 

No voices. Only engines. 

Reaching out with the Force, it tells him the same thing: there’s no one else close by.

Another gentle nudge and the bolts of the grate fall loose. 

It’s twice the drop from the vents here as it is in the room he’s escaped from, but he makes the landing silently, the balls of his bare feet absorbing the impact. Immediately, he starts to sweat. If it’s cool in most of the ship, here, at its heart, the heat is uncomfortably intense. Strands of hair stick to his neck and cheeks, and when he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the service panel, he’s a filthy mess of oil and dirt. 

Returning to Jango like this will be mortifyingly dramatic, but what choice does he have?

The engine room has one thing he needs that he doesn’t have access to anywhere on the ship. 

Two. Two things. 

The first is an unmonitored computer terminal. 

The second is the manual shutdown for the hyperdrive. 

He hits that one first, knowing that once he’s triggered the override, it’ll be a matter of seconds, not minutes, before someone investigates. 

That’s fine. He’ll only need a moment to find what he needs on the computer. That, he has used before. 

In any other circumstances, Obi-Wan might feel guilty about doing the kind of damage he’s about to do to Hondo’s beloved ship. But the bastard shot him, kidnapped him, and might’ve played a part in destabilizing two planetary systems. If he’s mad about it, he can go to Dooku for compensation. 

It’s been years since he’s crushed something with the Force. It’s not a skill he was taught at the Temple, leaving his education years before he’d be considered ready to learn one of the Jedi’s most dangerous abilities. Everything he knows of it is self-taught - often under the threat of blaster fire. The memories are not hard to access here, of all places. 

The manual override control twists in on itself, metal warping until it is bent completely out of shape and a whole new panel will need to be installed before anyone can use the hyperdrive again. 

Adrenaline pumping, he then rushes back to the console. 

Several furious taps later, and he has the information he needs. 

They’re still in Mandalorian space. How Dooku expects to get Obi-Wan past the blockade Jango will unquestionably have put in place, he has no idea. He honestly doesn’t care. 

All he knows is that he’s close enough to make a run for it. 

Figuratively speaking. 

The clanging sound of boots on metal rings in the distance. 

Time is up. 

There’s no going back into the vents, not to get to where he needs to be. No, this time he needs to go _down_. 

This ship, like so many other pirate ships, makes good use of _all_ its space. 

He lifts up one of the floor grates and grimaces at the twisting pipes below. 

This was _so_ much easier as a teenager. 

Under the pipes that run across the whole floor, there’s a foot’s worth of space between them and the ceiling panels of the floor below. It’s where pirates store their more controversial cargo in case of inspection, and it's where the ship’s old Captain once kept Obi-Wan during that exact thing. 

That time, he’d been so tightly bound he’d not been able to move, and so cruelly gagged that breathing in the cramped, hot space and been his one and only concern. 

The footsteps are louder now, forcing him to squeeze through the narrow gap with more haste than he’d like. The pipes are searing hot against his skin, but he has no time to allow the pain to distract him. Just as he’s able to slip most of his body beneath the pipes, a shadow moves in the doorway. He’s able to tug the floor panel back into place just as the first voices arrive in the room. 

He stays perfectly still. So long as none of those voices belong to Dooku, he stands a chance at remaining undetected. Either they think he’s still in his room or they know he’s escaped, but no one would think of looking for him _here_. 

Not even Hondo. Force, Hondo was the one who pulled him out all those years ago. He knows how much Obi-Wan hates it down here. 

But he doesn’t know how far Obi-Wan is willing to go to get back to his husband. 

He has _no_ idea how much Obi-Wan loves him. 

Now really isn’t the time for that revelation, but he’s never been particularly good at keeping to any kind of schedule. 

He loves Jango, simple as. 

And if Hondo, Dooku, or anyone else thinks they can keep Obi-Wan from his side, they’re going to face one hell of a reckoning. 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides*

There’s something soothing about the feeling of dirt under his fingernails. He can’t explain why he’s taking the time to try and return the broken, battered plant to the earth, not when he knows there’s little to no chance of it surviving now it's been torn so irreparably. He just knows instinctively that Obi-Wan would want him to, and the few short minutes he spends attempting it are enough to quieten the screaming in his head. 

There is no time for panic and no place for fear. Not now. He can’t help Obi-Wan if he’s lost to his own nightmares.

“Alor?” It’s almost impressive how Myles manages to sound so in control, and yet so carefully tentative at the same time. “Lady Shmi is asking to speak with you.”

Jango looks up sharply, horrified at his own lack of thought. Obi-Wan’s bedroom is still overrun with guards, their numbers now bolstered by Myles’s _Ori’ramikdae_. Between attempts to secure the security breach and investigate the entire incident, Jango hasn’t given any thought to Obi-Wan’s servants. 

“Is she alright?” He asks, knowing how devastated Obi-Wan will be if she is harmed. 

Myles nods. “Yes. Isabet had both of them secured in their rooms. Don’t think they’re too happy about that, but they’re safe.”

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Jango nods his head. He needs to make his way towards the War Cabinet, but he can spare Shmi a moment of reassurance. 

Myles gestures towards the door, and a few moments later, Shmi is hurrying into Obi-Wan’s chambers. She’s wearing her usual purple robes, but her hair and paint have been hastily applied. She suddenly looks older than Jango has thought of her as, fine lines around her eyes and mouth giving her an edge of maturity that the paint has so far covered. 

Looking at her makes him think of Obi-Wan, whose unpainted face is, by contrast, almost painfully young. 

“My Lady-“ Jango starts, suddenly unsure of what to say to her. 

Shmi walks right up to him, her shoulders set and stubborn, her mouth pressed into a thin, colorless line. “Is it true?” She asks him. “Was the Prince taken by a Jedi?”

Kriffing hells, that stayed quiet for long…

Nodding stiffly, he tries to reassure her. “It’s true, but I swear-“

“Is it the Count?” She cuts him off with little fear of repercussion. Up until now, she has always been quietly spoken and impeccably proper - much like Obi-Wan himself. She has just as much fire in her dark eyes, though. Fire, and steadfast resolve.

Jango gestures to Isabet, who obligingly starts the holo recording again. After only a moment, Shmi lets out a long - and shockingly colorful - string of Huttese curses. The tirade, one Jango - and Myles, by the look on his face - is deeply impressed with, ends with a resoundinglu unimpressed expression. Jango’s brain quickly translates it as ‘ _idiot_ ’. 

“You know him?” Jango demands. He feels that creeping frost start to take hold once more, his heart skipping a beat in preparation for the freeze. “Does _Obi-Wan_ know him?”

“I know him,” Shmi says grimly, “for the same reason His Highness does: Master Dooku was the Jedi who rescued us from the Nexus.”

No. No, that’s not possible. It’s not…

 _Dooku_. Hearing his name after all these years…

He stumbles backward and finds himself sinking down onto the edge of Obi-Wan’s bed. 

“Us?” Myles asks softly. 

Shmi’s poise is dignified and confident, which makes the next words out of her mouth hit with a jarring weight. “I was born a slave. I met His Highness when he was sold to the slavers who were transporting us back to Tatooine. When he was rescued, he insisted we were all freed. I entered his employment two years later.”

_"If the Jedi who saved me had met you first, I would be dead. Or worse.”_

How can it be the same man? How can Obi-Wan’s savior be the monster from Galidraan? How can a man be so gentle and kind as to earn the trust of a traumatized teenager, then a year later turn around and lead the slaughter of hundreds of Jango’s men? 

Dooku, and the face that haunts his waking dreams, with eyes so cold and so cruel, filled with dispassion and disdain, who hadn’t simply forced Jango to watch as the bodies of his fallen brothers and sisters disposed of in the cruelest way, their bodies torched by flames in a bitter mockery of the _kote kyr'am_ as _Kyr'tsad_ ground them into the mud and howled mockeries at their corpses. No, Dooku saved the worst for Jango. Letting him live had been no act of kindness or compassion, but the gravest of insults. 

“If he knows Obi-Wan, why abduct him?” Jango growls, his rage crashing back down on him in a tsunami as he realizes the final victory Dooku has stolen from Jango, a decade later. 

Whatever his reason for taking Obi-Wan now, if Jango kills the _jetii_ , his _riduur_ will never forgive him. 

Worse, the life debt Dooku owes Jango for his crimes is now null and void. Before either he or Jango even set foot on Galidraan, Jango owed him a debt of his own. 

In one fell swoop, an act of great evil and simple compassion wipe each other out of existence. 

Oh, Jango can demand reparations for his brothers and sisters: that is his right as _Mand’alor_. But he cannot claim Dooku’s head for himself. And he can claim nothing in payment for his own torment and shame. 

If offered the choice, he’d gladly bear the weight of slavery and the cold cut of the lash to spare Obi-Wan his suffering. Now he must make that payment retrospectively. 

“I don’t know,” Shmi says quietly. “I don’t know what he’s doing or why. But I do know that he’d never hurt Obi-Wan. He’s as a treasured grandchild to Dooku. He was at your wedding! If you reach out to him - talk to him -“ her soft, earnest plea fades under the wave of white noise that washes over him. 

The man he saw Obi-Wan with on Corvie, the tall, shadowed figure, right there in the open, within his reach…

Kriff, he’s going to be sick. 

“This is all my fault…”

He knew it before, but stars, this is somehow worse. He could’ve prevented this. He couldn’ve prevented all of this…

“This is _not_ your fault,” Myles says fiercely. 

Jango’s eyes feel bruised as he lifts his head to look at his brother. “You said it yourself: if I’d just talked to him-“

“No, Jango, that’s not on you.”

Isn’t it? He had the chance. More than one. To tell Obi-Wan what happened on Galidraan, to tell him why he feels the way he does and not simply leave it to vague assertions. Maybe if he had, Obi-Wan would have confided in him, would have told him about Dooku and their relationship, and Jango could’ve protected him. If he’d known that there were Jedi still in his life - but no. No, Obi-Wan probably felt Dooku needed protecting _from_ Jango, because Jango was too cowardly and ashamed to talk to him…

Whatever Shmi thinks, whatever she is certain of, there’s no denying that Dooku took Obi-Wan. The look on his _riduur’s_ face in Isabet’s recording had been one of fear, and he’d been unconscious when Dooku and his accomplice made their escape. 

That’s not the act of… what did she say? A loving grandfather? No. No, there’s no spinning the narrative here to make Dooku anything other than what he is. If anything, it only heightens Jango’s urgency. What kind of poison will the _jetii_ drip into Obi-Wan’s mind while he has him prisoner? What kind of trauma is he willfully inflicting on Obi-Wan, all in the name of his vendetta against Jango?

That Obi-Wan knows Dooku, that he possibly even loves him… it changes nothing. 

It _has_ to change nothing. 

Jango knows how to fight a war.

He has no idea how to stand in front of the man he loves and say ‘please, choose me.’

* * *

It takes Obi-Wan almost half an hour to crawl his way, inch by painful inch, along the narrow, claustrophobic gap bellow the pipes. Every time he moves too quickly or too vigorously, he presses his shoulder or his leg against the blisteringly hot pipes and has to fight back a groan of agony. Burns have always been his least favorite kind of pain - if such a thing exists. In his young mind, burns always meant a failure of some kind, a lesson not properly absorbed. As a grown man, they now prove a mark of frustration.

His fingers are bloody and his knees bruised from his crawl, the arms of his robes ripped and the hem singed, and he’s never hated having long hair so much in his life. But he keeps moving, each hard-won inch towards freedom infusing him with fresh strength. 

When he gets out of here, he’s using the credits he’s spent ten years accruing to take out advertisements with every news agency from Coruscant to Tatooine and announcing to the galaxy that Hondo Ohnaka is the very _worst_ pirate in the history of piracy. And then he’s writing a strong letter of complaint to Mace Windu. 

The fresh swell of irritation makes him careless. He bangs his head against the pipe above him, and in the instinctive attempt to protect himself, manages to wedge his shoulder right against the hot metal. “ _Bastard son of a Hutt and fucking-_ “ he sucks in a deep breath. 

A very, _very_ strong fucking letter. 

Breathing through his nose, partially to keep himself from cursing, Obi-Wan finally makes it to his destination. 

At which point, the weak ceiling panel that the pirates use as their main access point literally gives way beneath him. 

His fall is less graceful than the last, and he lands with an undignified thud three feet from the escape pod. 

It would be mission successful, if not for the boots standing between him and it. 

“You always were incredibly resourceful,” Dooku says mildly, offering Obi-Wan a hand. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve escaped.”

Obi-Wan takes it, not petty enough to risk falling on his face a second time. “Do you have any idea how furious I am with you right now?”

“Of course I do,” Dooku huffs. “I could feel your anger in the Force like a beacon. You need to meditate, young one, lest it allow other, more sinister Force users to infiltrate your mind.”

“You’re really going to lecture me now?” Obi-Wan demands incredulously. “You just kidnapped me!”

“I apologize,” Dooku says without hesitation. 

Obi-Wan tugs furiously at the edges of his torn robe and tries to maintain some sense of dignity, despite his appearance. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Jango hates the the Jedi! If he finds out who you are, he will take this as an act of war! Which… which it absolutely is! For Force sake, you’re a representative of the Republic! You can’t go around kidnapping people from neutral systems! What are the Council _thinking_?”

Dooku’s jaw tightens. “The Council does not approve of my actions,” he says stiffly. 

“Of course they don’t,” Obi-Wan finds himself nodding in relief, “because they are suicidally insane!”

“The Council also forbade me to go to Melida/Daan to collect you after Qui-Gon’s appalling abandonment. I find the Force calls me down a path that is greatly divergent from their own.” His gaze tracks Obi-Wan from head to toe, taking in the mess that he’s made of himself in his bid for freedom. In that second, he looks both heartbroken, and ancient. “I swore to you that if I heard but a whisper that you were being mistreated-“

“I’m not!” Obi-Wan says desperately. “Jango is a kind, honorable man!”

“That is not the story relayed to the Council by Master Galia and her Padawan.”

The shot of relief at hearing Siri and Aid Galia made it back to the Temple safely is almost dizzying when set against his frustration. 

“Whatever they thought they saw-“

 _“He made you beg for forgiveness,_ ” Dooku snarls, the hatred bubbling in him only matched by the same hatred Obi-Wan has felt from Jango. “I have seen you close to death and traumatized, ready to die before begging for anything.”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes against the impact of self-hatred. This is all his fault…

“It was an act,” he says, looking pleadingly up at his mentor, “to appease his men after I humiliated him. He didn’t ask me to do it… he certainly didn’t force me to. Please, you have to let me go back. I can fix this before it gets any worse.”

“I swore I would keep you safe,” Dooku shakes his head. 

“So did he,” Obi-Wan whispers. “I am not worth the kind of sacrifice either of you is trying to make for me!”

“Do not-“ Dooku steps away and struggles to collect himself. “You say he hates Jedi. Do you understand what will happen when he discovers your past? He will kill you!”

He’s thought so, too. But with the realization of his love for Jango has come one overwhelming shift in belief. 

Jango won’t kill him. If what Obi-Wan has felt from him is all he feels, it's still enough to stay his hand. 

Xanatos said it himself: loving Obi-Wan will cost Jango everything. 

Xanatos… no doubt he is involved as well, somehow. If the Council is still monitoring him, then it won’t have escaped their attention that he made a show at Obi-Wan’s wedding.

Add dealing with Xanatos to his list.

“He won’t kill me,” Obi-Wan says with certainty. “I can feel his love for me in the Force.” 

“Do not be so sure, young one,” Dooku shakes his head. “That man is capable of great evil.”

Obi-Wan feels his hackles rise in defense of his husband. “He would say the same of you,” he says firmly. “And I believe it of neither of you! You are both good men!”

Dooku slips a hand into his robes and withdraws a data chip. “I took you because I knew you would not leave him without good reason. I had hoped to have had time to show this to you in the palace. This-“ he gestures to Obi-Wan’s appearance, “is the very last thing I would ever want to subject you to.”

Obi-Wan’s answer softens in the face of his clear distress. “You have to know that he’ll find me. There’s nowhere you can take me that he won’t follow.”

“I understand that. I made the best of an impossible situation-“

“You hired _Hondo_!” Obi-Wan exclaims, and the flash of despairing frustration on Dooku’s face makes him feel a little better, if only for a moment. 

Instead of protesting, or trying to explain the logic of that part of his plan, Dooku extends his hand and passes Obi-Wan the data chip. “The files we have acquired on Jango Fett. Read it. When you are done, if you still wish to return to him, I will not stand in your way.”

Obi-Wan’s fingers close hesitantly around the chip. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I swear to you that he will never find you, and you will live the remainder of your days peacefully,” Dooku vows. 

It’s such a small thing, the data chip, barely the size of a flower petal. It sits in the palm of his hand, innocuous and damning. “I won’t change my mind,” he says, not looking up. 

“Read it,” Dooku urges. “You need to know what kind of a man he really is.”

He could refuse. He could - he should - just throw the chip aside, force his way past Dooku and return to Mandalore. 

Instead, he slides the data chip into the ship’s console and watches with a sinking heart as the holoprojector in front of him flickers to life. 

The image is of good quality, clearly from someone’s helmet cam, unsteady and jarring as whoever wears it charges towards a wall of lightsabers. 

Voices crackle over the image, loud, even amidst the chaotic sounds of battle. 

No. _No_ …

“I can’t watch this,” he says, reaching back towards the console. 

Dooku’s hand closes around his wrist. It’s not a painful grip, but it is firm - unbreakable. “I’m sorry, Obi-Wan, but you must. You must see. You must know.”

It's Jango’s voice. 

Jango’s cam. 

And the muddy, blood-soaked fields of Galidraan ahead. 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you yell at me! I'm posting this early because I have a crazy day ahead of me and would otherwise have to skip a day, so keep that in mind before coming for my head...

“You need to rest.” Myles keeps his voice pitched low, trying to keep the statement between the two of them, but it still collides with Jango’s focus and knocks him off track. 

“I need to check this cam footage,” he grunts, indicating the stream of images that flash across the monitor at high speed. 

“Llats’s has someone on it,” Myles points out. “He has multiple someones on it. Just step back for a second.”

“I can’t,” Jango feels broken just admitting it. “If I miss something-“

“Then the highly-trained security analysts who are paid to do this for a living will catch it.” Myles gently pulls on his shoulder, easing Jango’s death grip on the side of the console. “Come on. Just… fresh air. Five minutes.”

“What if-“

Myles lifts his wrist com and taps it. “If a beetle so much as sneezes, someone will let us know.”

“Beetles don’t sneeze,” Jango mutters, following with reluctance. 

Myles gets a better hold of him, one arm around his back, the other braced on the shoulder closest to him. Jango is used to being in his physical shadow, used to being loomed over by Myles and by Jag and by two-thirds of the people in his life.

He rarely feels small, but he does now. Small, and helpless. 

“How’d you know?” Myles asks, picking up the threads of their absurd conversation, likely in the hope that it will distract Jango from the raw, bloody shreds of his heart and the way they scream at him to do something. Anything. “Might be the noisiest fuckers in insect land.”

“Obi-Wan’d know,” Jango says. 

Myles sighs. “Yeah, that’s the kind of nerdy thing he likes I guess.”

Jango half turns in Myles’s hold and grabs his arm. “If he’s hurt him-“

“You heard Shmi,” Myles shakes his head. “She doesn’t think he will. Kriff, small fucking galaxy though, right?” Painfully small. “No wonder he got upset when we talked about _jetii_ if that’s his only interaction with them.”

If a _jetii_ had come and saved Jango from the chains of his slavery, he’d… well he’d probably not feel the same way, given the _jetii's_ role in putting him there, but he can understand things from Obi-Wan’s perspective.

“What are you gonna do when we find them?” There’s no doubt in Myles’s voice that they will, his confidence in Jango and the military force they have built together unwavering. 

Jango honestly has no idea. He knows what he wants to do and he can guess what Obi-Wan will want. How he’s supposed to juggle the two… “Let’s just find him. I have to find him. I’ll worry about Dooku when he’s safe.”

It’s a lie: he’ll worry about Dooku now, but no one says he can’t multitask. 

The com on Jango’s wrist chimes loudly, set at its highest volume. Surprisingly, Myles’s doesn’t. Someone is messaging Jango directly. 

“What?” He barks, lifting his wrist, gearing himself up for more bad news. 

“ _Jango_?”

“Obi-Wan?!”

_“Oh! Hello. I wasn’t sure if they’d be blocking direct transmissions.”_

Hello. Kriffing hello…

“Are you okay? Where are you?” He flaps his arm at Myles. Myles already has his own com open and is muttering quietly into it. 

_“I’m fine. Terribly lost, though. I borrowed an escape pod and I think I’m somewhere outside the city. Possibly north? Whoever designed this navigation system is a sadist._ ” His tone is remarkably light, right up until that final complaint. 

“Are you hurt?” Jango asks, unashamed of his burning eyes or the relieved way he clutches at Myles’s arm. 

_“No, no. Well. A little disheveled.”_

‘What does that mean?’ Jango mouths to Myles, who shrugs. 

If Obi-Wan is outside the city then he’s stranded in the toxic atmosphere outside the biodome until transport can pick him up. 

“Got him!” Myles says, tapping on his wrist before leaning in to speak into Jango’s com. “Your Highness?”

_“Oh, hello Myles.”_

Myles blinks. “Hi,” he says, sounding as confused as Jango feels. “How’s your life-support?”

 _“The monitor is broken, so either fully functional or about to explode.”_ He’s almost cheerful in his matter-of-fact announcement, but Jango feels lightheaded. 

“Okay. Just hold tight. I’ve got two patrol units in your area. You should see them in a few-“

_“I see them. My aim wasn’t too far off, that's good.”_

“Right.” Myles’s bewildered nod is strangely reassuring. “That’s good!” He goes back to his own channel, leaving Jango with Obi-Wan.

“I’m coming to get you,” he promises. 

_“There’s really no need, darling,”_ Obi-Wan says calmly. “ _If Myles has men close by then hopefully they won’t mind giving me a ride back to the city.”_

If they mind, Jango is demoting them to latrine duty for the rest of their careers. 

“You’re really not hurt?” 

_“Really,”_ Obi-Wan says gently. _“I’m so sorry for all the fuss I must’ve caused.”_

When Jango is done holding his _riduur_ , he’s going to shake some damn sense into him. 

“I’m just glad you’re okay. I’ll meet you at the docking bay?”

“ _Yes_.” Jango can hear the soft sound of Obi-Wan’s breathing, so he lets the call continue just for the reassurance. “ _Jango_?”

“Yeah?”

_“Would you… would you stay on the call? Just a little longer. I missed your voice.”_

Jango has to screw his eyes up tightly against treacherous tears, both painfully relieved and achingly worried that the call is audio-only. 

“I missed you, too,” he admits. “But you’ll be back with me soon, and I promise I will never let go of you again.” Obi-Wan’s cheerful demeanor cracks into a soft, muffled sob, barely audible. “I promise.”

* * *

Myles’s scouts clearly were incredibly close to Obi-Wan’s position, and they make it to the transport dock only moments after Jango, Myles, and Isabet. 

Their own vehicle hasn’t fully stopped moving before Jango is ending the open call, vaulting over the side and sprinting across the bay to wait impatiently for the cab to open. 

Whether Obi-Wan throws himself into Jango’s arms, or Jango reaches out and pulls him into them, the end result is the same. One of Jango’s hands fist in the blue shock blanket one of the scouts as wrapped around his _riduur’s_ shoulders while the other wraps protectively around the back of his neck. 

He’s dimly aware of Myles’s men closing off the area, buying them some privacy while their Mand’alor hides his tears in the tangle of Obi-Wan’s wild hair. 

“You’re freezing,” he mutters, holding Obi-Wan tighter. 

“I’m alright,” Obi-Wan says, prompting Jango to reluctantly loosen his grip and hold him back far enough to get a better look. 

This is what Obi-Wan considers alright? 

He’s filthy. The blanket slips down to reveal one torn sleeve of a robe that might’ve once been cream but is now more grime than silk. His long hair, usually so soft and smooth, is a knotted, damp tangle around his face, whatever attempt he’s made to tie it back having fallen loose into an unraveling braid that almost reaches his knees. 

And his face…

Jango hastily averts his gaze. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t… I should’ve brought you something.” He could’ve at least asked Shmi to fetch a cloak and veil. 

Obi-Wan catches his cheek lightly with the tips of his fingers. There are bruises around his wrist and clear patches of raw skin where he’s struggled against restraints and Jango is going to fucking kill Dooku, damn the consequences. 

“I think it’s a bit late for that,” he says, drawing Jango’s attention back to his bare, unpainted face. 

That’s filthy too, but Jango knows better than to equate the mask of paint with the smears of oil and dirt. 

Still. Paint or no paint, dirt be damned, he’s the most beautiful sight Jango has ever seen, and it’s got nothing to do with his face. 

He was so close… so close to losing Obi-Wan…

“What happened? How did you escape?” Jango runs his hands carefully down the tangled sides of Obi-Wan’s hair, knowing how much he must hate being so disheveled. 

When he turns to scowl furiously at anyone who might be looking, he’s relieved - and proud - to see that each and every one of the Mando’ade remaining is respectfully averting their gaze. 

“Actually, he let me go.” From Obi-Wan’s expression, it’s clear that he understands how utterly insane that sounds, given all the trouble Dooku went to abduct him in the first place. “He didn’t hurt me.”

“Didn’t… _look at you_!” Jango exclaims, an explosion of disbelief and fury that he regrets the second he sees the responding flinch in Obi-Wan’s eyes. Softer, and so much more carefully, he reaches up and cups Obi-Wan’s dirty face in his hands. “Look at you, _cyare_...” He gently rubs a smudge of oil from his cheek and pointedly doesn’t let Obi-Wan drop his gaze. “What is this if not harm?”

Obi-Wan’s filthy, bloody fingers curl around Jango’s wrist, anchoring him in place. “Would you believe I did this to myself?” He looks abashed. “I’m not particularly good at waiting around for rescues.”

Jango thinks of the scars he knows Obi-Wan wears from a previous escape attempt and marvels at the sheer, bullheaded stubbornness it takes to live through something so scarring - emotionally and physically - and still dive right back into resistance when threatened. 

“I would’ve found you,” he says, broken by his failure. 

“Oh, I know that,” Obi-Wan lifts his lips in a flicker of a smile. “I’m just terribly impatient.”

Impatient, he says. Kriffing hells, Jango loves him. He loves him so much it hurts. 

“You’re impossible,” he says fondly, drawing Obi-Wan closer again, tilting his head and kissing the side of his temple. “And I’m taking you home.”

* * *

  
Obi-Wan keeps a death watch on his hand as Jango leads him through the palace. 

Isabet leaves them upon their arrival, heading in search of Llats to deliver an update. Obi-Wan might be safe, but Jango is by no means ready to call off the search for his kidnappers. 

He wants nothing more than to just sweep Obi-Wan up off his feet and carry him back to safety - even offering to do so when the sight of his bare toes triggers every protective instinct he has. But Obi-Wan is stubborn and proud, and as much as Jango would hate to be carried into his own home, he seems twice as averse to the idea. 

So Jango hovers, holding Obi-Wan the way Myles held him until they are safely back in his bedroom. 

Oné and Shmi, aided by a number of the palace staff, have cleaned away every sign of intrusion. They’re sat by the fire, waiting nervously, and both practically fly across the room when Jango escorts him inside. 

The rapid flow of conversation that follows is all in Stewjoni. Jango’s been learning, practicing words at breakfast and furiously trying to absorb instructional lessons via his com in his free moments, but if he picks up the odd word, they’re all speaking far too quickly for him to glean much. 

He does catch Dooku’s name once. It’s uttered by a tearful Shmi and followed by what he can only assume is reassurance from Obi-Wan. His _riduur_ kisses each of them on both cheeks before turning back to Jango, flushed. 

“Forgive me,” he says.

Jango is quick to shake his head. “There’s nothing to forgive.” Looking around the room, he half expects a _jetii_ to loom from the shadows. “Are you alright staying here? You can have my rooms, I’ll bunk with Myles.”

Myles nods in silent agreement. If Jango asks it, he’ll camp in the doorway every night until Dooku is captured. 

“It’s fine,” Obi-Wan reassures him. “Is… the guard on duty, I’m sorry, I don’t know his name… is he alright?”

“He’s recovering well,” Jango nods. “The only real damage is to his ego.”

“It’s really not his fault,” Obi-Wan sighs. “I’m so _angry_ with him.” 

It takes Jango a moment to realize that he’s now speaking of Dooku. 

His idea of angry likely doesn’t measure against Jango’s, but at least they’re on something resembling the same page. 

“Yeah, well. We’ll find him. He should never have brought you into this. It’s between him and me.”

Obi-Wan lets the blanket slip from his shoulders and drapes it over the back of the couch. 

Sensing a shift in the conversation, Oné dismisses himself in search of a med pack to clean Obi-Wan’s hands, while Shmi turns and busies herself with running a fresh bath. 

“He didn’t take me to spite you, Jango,” Obi-Wan whispers once both of them have left and only Jango and Myles remain. “I promise you that.”

Jango shakes his head and starts to pace back and forth. He has Obi-Wan back, safe and relatively unharmed. Now, he must turn his attention to ensuring no one ever tries to take him again. 

The Jedi have no hostage to hide behind now, no shield that might hold Jango’s rage at bay. They want a fight, they’re going to kriffing get one. 

“That’s what he told you,” Jango says, “but he’s lying.” Obi-Wan’s expression shatters. Without the paint, without his armor, it’s so easy to see what he’s thinking. Once again, Jango finds his rage softened in the face of his _riduur’s_ distress. “I’m sorry, _cyare_ ,” he says, and he truly is. “I know what he must mean to you, but-“

Obi-Wan’s open, hurting expression closes off. He takes a long, slow breath, visibly bracing himself. He straights his spine and lifts his chin, then takes a step forward, infused with such authority and certainty that Jango pauses mid-sentence. Myles’s polite attempt at giving them some privacy is abandoned. Whatever Obi-Wan is about to say, he has a captive audience. 

“He didn’t take me to hurt you, or to reignite your conflict,” he repeats with certainty. “He took me to protect me.”

Jango’s recoiled less after being physically struck. “From _what_?” He demands. 

Obi-Wan’s poise is still strong and steady, but his bright eyes are rapidly flooding with tears. “From you,” he says apologetically. “And what you’d do when you learned the truth.”

Jango laughs in disbelief, a cold, ugly sound that has no place between himself and his _riduur_. “I might not _like_ that he’s the _jetii_ who saved you - I actually fucking hate it. But that’s on _me_ to handle. I would never take my hatred of him out on you.”

“I know,” Obi-Wan whispers, the first tear blinking free and rolling slowly down his cheek. “That’s not why.”

“Then what is?” Jango demands, throwing his hands in the air. “Why are you defending him? What sick twisted justification did he give himself for kidnapping you from your own fucking bedroom, Obi-Wan?”

Of all the things Obi-Wan might say to him, in no world is he ever expecting to hear the ones he utters. “He thinks you’ll kill me,” Obi-Wan whispers. He lifts one arm up and extends his hand. For a second, Jango thinks he is asking for him to take it, to hold him through the aftermath of that devastating statement. 

But then, after reaching into Jango’s chest and sinking his fingers into the tender, fragile pulse of his heart, he tightens his grip and tears it right out of his chest. 

“He thinks you’ll kill me,” Obi-Wan continues, crying silently, “when you find out what I am.”

The blanket Obi-Wan left abandoned on the back of the couch drifts through the air, pulled by an invisible thread, until Obi-Wan can curl his fingers around the edge. 

Jango takes two steps backward even as Myles launches himself into a defensive stance, blaster drawn. 

More tears roll down Obi-Wan’s cheeks, but for once Jango can’t focus on them. All he can do is stare at the blanket that now hangs limply from his _riduur’s_ fingers. 

Just like that, the missing piece of a puzzle he doesn’t even know he’s been trying to solve suddenly slots into place. 

Obi-Wan, with fast enough reflexes to outmaneuver Jango without really trying. 

Skilled enough to floor Myles with a single blow.

Strong enough to pin Pre Vizsla to the table with only a single slender blade. 

All of those things that a normal man would need the build of a warrior and the talent of an experienced fighter to achieve, but can be hidden so deviously in plain sight for the rare, dangerous few. 

“ _Jetii_ ,” he chokes, unwilling to process the truth, but unable to deny it either. “You’re a _jetii_.”

Obi-Wan folds his hands over his chest and lowers his chin. It’s not as dramatic a position as the one he took in the brig, but its show of submission is just as deceptive. 

He looks so lost, so fragile, so helpless, and it’s all a lie. He could kill all of them without lifting a finger. 

Jango had not been aware of reaching for the darksaber before, and he’s not aware now.

But the familiar thrum of its ignited blade calls to an ancient, agonized beat that his heart knows well. The darksaber has killed over a thousand _jetii_ in its history. 

What’s one more against a tally like that?


	27. Chapter 27

There are few weapons in the Galaxy that inspire as much fear as the darksaber, but Obi-Wan stares it down unflinchingly. 

“Was he right?” Is what he asks quietly. “ _Are_ you going to kill me?”

There’s a choked cry from the far side of the room as Shmi steps back around the privacy screen, towels in her arms, and freezes at the sight of them. The towels fall in a sad heap and she throws herself forward, trying to put herself between Obi-Wan and the weapon in Jango’s hand.

Only then does Obi-Wan move, faster than Jango has ever seen him, to push her safely behind him. 

“Your anger is with me,” he warns Jango, the soft, pleading look in his eyes quickly hardening. “Not with her.”

“Please,” Shmi begs, not trying to get back around Obi-Wan but still reaching out imploringly. “Please, he left the Jedi years ago! _Please_! Please don’t hurt him.”

“It’s alright, Shmi,” Obi-Wan soothes her, not once taking his eyes off Jango. “He won’t.”

“You’re so sure?” Jango’s whole body aches, tension and adrenaline colliding, his heart pounding violently in his throat. 

“I came back, didn’t I?”

His confidence is unwavering. Not, it appears, from his inability to protect himself and Shmi, but from the certainty that Jango won’t attack in the first place. 

The Jedi can compel people, he knows it, he’s _seen_ it, but he doesn’t feel any kind of tug drawing him away from what he knows is an instinct so deeply ingrained that no power in the Galaxy could counter it. 

All he feels is shame. 

He’s holding a weapon on his _riduur_ while a civilian begs Jango for his life. 

He shouldn’t think of Obi-Wan as unarmed, not when _jetii_ don’t need a weapon to be dangerous, but it’s hard not to. 

He gestures to Myles with his empty hand, and they both stand down. The saber, even extinguished, seems to pulse with need. 

Once the blade is back, clipped to Jango’s belt, Obi-Wan lets out a steadying breath. “Thank you,” he says, before turning to Shmi. “Please go and find Oné and wait in your rooms. I’ll call for you later.”

“I am not leaving you with them,” Shmi says fiercely. The heat in her dark eyes as she sizes both Jango and Myles up - looking for all the world as if she’s preparing to physically tackle both of them - is palpable. 

“I’ll be fine.”

“He’s a _jetii_ ,” Myles grumbles as if to underscore the point. Jango knows him well enough to know that behind the blank mask of professionalism, Myles is as lost and confused as he is. 

“And you kill them, don’t you?” Shmi snaps at him. 

“Yes!” Myles says, entirely without anger. “And they kill us!”

“Shmi, please.” Obi-Wan gives her a gentle nudge. “We’re just going to talk.”

Talk. Right. Where the _fuck_ do they even start? 

Obi-Wan and Shmi seem to drift into a silent conversation, one that ends with Shmi giving Jango such a poisonous look he’s honestly surprised he doesn’t drop dead on the spot. Bo Katan could learn a thing or two from her. 

Once she’s gone, Myles speaks up. “I’m not leaving.” 

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Obi-Wan says. “I know… I know this is a lot. Believe me, this wasn’t how I planned on telling you.”

Jango feels his lips pull back into a snarl. “And how _did_ you plan it? Maybe after our ten year anniversary?”

“Honestly? I wasn’t planning on telling you at all. I didn’t think it was relevant when we first met.”

“You’re a Jedi!” Jango exclaims. “I’m kriffing Mand’alor!”

“We hate each other,” Myles adds. “We’ve hated each other for millennia. There are songs about it. Many, _many_ songs!”

“I was taken to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant when I was three years old,” Obi-Wan says, immediately drawing Jango back to the conversation after their wedding ceremony. That an event only eight days ago can seem so very far in the past says everything about how quickly - and how easily - Jango has fallen for him. 

It’s easy to remember Obi-Wan’s expression that night, and easier still to remember the things he said. 

He asked Jango what he would do if he were a Jedi. More than that, he asked if Jango would kill him. 

If he’d drown that little Stewjoni child and spare the Galaxy from his evil. 

Short of waving a lightsaber in Jango’s face, he all but admitted the truth of his identity. 

And the excuse Jango gave for not wishing the child dead - his only explanation, stacked against his actions on the journey to Mandalore - wasn’t that the child didn’t _deserve_ death, but that he would not stop so low as the _jetii_ in order to kill him. 

“You were the boy they tried to drown,” he mutters. The initial, instinctive horror he first felt at hearing of the barbaric practice rises again, this time lodging itself bitterly at the back of his throat. 

It shouldn’t be any different. A child is a child. A _jetii_ is a _jetii_. But it’s not hard to imagine Obi-Wan at three years old. 

Would Jango kill him, that’s what he asked. Would he kill a child of theirs? Now the question stops being hypothetical, the answer comes easily to him.

No. A thousand times, no. 

Myles curses softly, reminding Jango that it’s not just him and Obi-Wan alone in the room. 

“Apparently I had a favorite toy,” Obi-Wan shrugs one shoulder. “My brother kept taking it and I’d levitate it across the room. I made the mistake of doing it in front of members of the Court, and, well…” the soft reflection in his eyes shifts into something almost wryly self-deprecating. “The Priests came to take me away, but my mother smuggled me out of the city. She took me to Coruscant and gave me to the Jedi for safety. My father banished her for it.”

That explains her absence at their wedding. He hadn’t asked, wary of upsetting his new _riduur_. It’s not like Jango’s parents were alive to attend, so he’d just assumed…

“If they wanted to kill you as a child, why the _kriff_ did you go back to them?” Jango shakes his head, utterly confused as to how a toddler placed with the _jetii_ ends up back with the family who tried to have him murdered.

“It’s rather a long story,” Obi-Wan admits. 

Jango spreads his arms wide. “And yet I am not going anywhere until you tell me. You’re so sure I won’t kill you? Give me a good reason not to.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, Obi-Wan nods. “Then would you mind if I sat down?” He almost sinks into the couch the second Jango shakes his head. As he sits, the edges of his robe part for a moment, flashing Jango with another - far less erotic - display of Obi-Wan’s leg. His knees are bruised and there are a number of red, angry burns stark against ghastly pale skin. 

All of the terror and helplessness he felt when Obi-Wan was missing comes flooding back, clashing with his aching need to hold his _riduur_ close and soothe away his pain… and with the primal, wild instinct that crawls under his skin, telling him to take Obi-Wan’s head before he can do what all _jetii_ do. 

He knows Obi-Wan will be cold, despite the fire. He knows he’s hurting and tired, stripped of his dignity and pride. 

And he has to remind himself that he’s not dealing with his husband right now, but something else. He cannot afford to give in to the softness that lives in his heart. 

“I became an apprentice when I was thirteen,” Obi-Wan explains. “It very nearly didn’t happen. I wasn’t a particularly skilled student, and I struggled constantly with my fear and anger. In hindsight, my less than auspicious start to life as a Jedi might’ve had something to do with that, but at the time all I knew was that the things my peers seemed to find so easy, I struggled to master. I initially aged out and was sent to join one of the service corps on Bandomeer. That was my first encounter with Xanatos duCrion.” He pauses, hesitates, then nods to himself. “Regardless of what you decide to do with me, you should know that OffWorld is built off the back of slave labor, and they’re not particularly picky about how they acquire their workers. I wasn’t the first person in the wrong place at the wrong time to end up in a collar.”

Jango stares at him. “Xanatos was at our wedding.” 

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows draw together, confused. “Yes…”

“He forced you into slavery?”

“Twice, actually, but we’ll get to that,” Obi-Wan says, his voice closer to that familiar dry humor than it’s been since his confession. 

Xanatos sat at their table. He drank with them. Celebrated with them. Was so apologetic when he realized he’d upset Obi-Wan…

“Bastard!” Jango growls. “That treacherous, Hutt spawned son of a- why didn’t you say anything?” Obi-Wan sat at Jango’s side, smiled, and said nothing while forced to share drinks with the man who forced him into slavery… twice? 

Obi-Wan has the nerve to look surprised. “Say what? He knew full well how you all feel about the Jedi. What could I have possibly said without risking him announcing my past to a table full of drunk, well-armed Mandalorians - who had just announced that they’d happily have watched me drown as a child, I might add!”

“I would have killed him before he uttered a fucking word!” Jango rages. 

“Because he’s a slaver?”

“Because he hurt you!” Jango shouts. Because he sat and laughed with Jango, smug and safe in the knowledge that Obi-Wan could do little to defend himself from his torment without endangering his life. 

Because Jango created a scenario where his _riduur_ could be mistreated right under his nose.

“I’m a Jedi! You want me dead! Why do you care if he hurt me?” Obi-Wan shakes his head. “It’s what I deserve, isn’t it?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me,” Jango warns. 

“It’s a genuine question!”

Yeah, and that’s the problem. Exhausted, Jango drags his hands over his face, digging his palms into his eyes in the hopes of chasing away the headache that’s been wrapped around his skull for hours. 

He drops down into the couch, far enough apart from Obi-Wan that you could sit two people between them. “I know,” he mutters. “I don’t have an answer for you.”

Obi-Wan nods, and looks grateful for even that much. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Jango asks bleakly. 

“I know what it’s like to be badly hurt, and I know how easy it is to use that pain and the hatred of those who caused it as a shield to hide behind.”

Jango lets out an empty laugh. “Is that what I’m doing?”

Obi-Wan lifts one eyebrow and shrugs the opposite shoulder. “You tell me.”

“Nice try. How’d you go from Bandomeer to Stewjon?” Jango leans more into the arm of the couch, grateful for the support. 

“Thats’s-“

“A long story? Yeah, I figured.” 

For a second, the look Obi-Wan shoots him is right out their morning conversations - fond, exasperated, a little impatient - and what Jango wouldn’t give to turn back time and be back in that easy, thoughtless place of love and warmth. 

“I was rescued, actually, by the man who would become my mentor. We went back to the Temple and life continued. I was happy, for the most part. Xanatos tried to kill me a few times, but you rather get used to it after a while.”

“Myles?” Jango calls over the back of the couch. 

“Oh, I’m already on it,” Myles mutters, tapping furiously at his com. 

“What are you doing?” Obi-Wan asks, curious. 

“Ruining that fucker’s day,” Myles says with a vindictive scowl. 

Obi-Wan blinks, first at Myles, then at Jango as he settles back down into the cushions. “I don’t think that’s really-“

“We can go back to me wanting to kill _you_ , if you like?” Jango says with an edge of warning. 

Obi-Wan holds up his hands. “Ruin away.” Nodding in satisfaction, Jango gestures for him to continue. “Where were we? Oh. So, some months into my first year as an apprentice, my Master and I were sent to a planet called Melida/Daan.”

“Now that was a clusterfuck if ever I heard of one,” Myles whistles low. 

“A sweeping understatement,” Obi-Wan says wryly, “but yes. Are you familiar with the planet’s history?”

“I know it was caught in a civil war,” Jango admits, “but we were a little too pre-occupied with our own to get involved.” Besides, anyone with half a grain of common sense could tell that you don’t just stick your nose into a conflict like that. If people are still fighting after a century, odds are they’ve forgotten half the reasons they even started. 

Obi-Wan nods. “We were called in to assist another Jedi who had gone missing while trying to mediate. Without getting into too much detail,” he slumps back deeper into the couch. “The planet’s children united in an attempt to end the conflict, knowing that the only way to force a ceasefire would be to win the war for themselves.”

That…sounds like a terrible idea. Jango’s been at war most of his life, and he could write a list of all the ways in which that kind of tactic would blow up in your face. “Tell me you didn’t,” he sighs, seeing all too clearly where Obi-Wan is going with his story. “You’re not that naive.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘optimistic’,” Obi-Wan says, scowling. 

“Insane,” Jango counters. “You can’t force people to stop fighting.”

“No,” Obi-Wan agrees. “You just have to get them to start talking.”

Does he honestly think Jango doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing? 

No. No, he doesn’t does he? Infuriating son of a…

The rise in frustration is a familiar one. Obi-Wan has been good at pushing his buttons right from the very start, hasn’t he? And Jango’s enjoyed it. Kriff, he’s cherished it. 

And he’s cherished things he’s absolutely only been able to do because he’s a _jetii_. 

“I’d wanted to be a Jedi Knight my whole life,” Obi-Wan says wistfully. “But on that planet, surrounded by those children…” he breaks off, looking right through Jango and into the past before a soft smile replaces his thousand-yard stare. “My Master offered me a choice: to leave with him and remain a Jedi or to stay behind and abandon that path. I chose to stay.”

“Do you regret it?” The words are out of Jango’s mouth before he can fully process them. 

“Staying?” Obi-Wan asks curiously. “No, I’ll never regret that. I miss the Jedi sometimes. I miss my friends, and for a long time after I returned to Stewjon, I missed the sense of purpose I once had.”

It’s tempting, so desperately tempting, to make a snide comment, but when he opens his mouth to do so, he finds he can’t. The _jetii_ Jango has encountered… Obi-Wan is nothing like them. He said it at their wedding, and he believes it still. 

“Anyway,” Obi-Wan says, “I stayed, and I fought, and we won. Which is when I encountered Xanatos again. I didn’t fare so well after that encounter, and, well… I told you how I met Dooku.”

“You really didn’t know him before?” Jango is surprised. 

“No. No, he was my Master’s Master, though, and he was furious that I’d been left behind in an active war zone. He tried to find me and bring me back safely - he even offered to do so when he rescued me, but by that point I knew I had a family… a family who apparently wanted me enough to pay the exorbitant ransom being asked. I’d been a poor Jedi; I had hoped to be a better son and brother.”

“Wait, wait,” Myles pipes up. “You didn’t know your family? Did you even know you were a Prince?”

Obi-Wan actually cringes. “No. The Jedi are a family. We don’t tend to maintain close ties with our birth families.”

“And yours tried to kill you,” Jango says bitterly

“It’s not that simple, darling,” Obi-Wan says, the affection easily and thoughtlessly offered. “Many people fear what they don’t understand, and Xanatos was right to say that my people and the Jedi have never exactly seen eye to eye. Very few people on Stewjon knew the full circumstances surrounding my departure, and for that reason, the Masters at the Temple decided to keep the exact nature of my birth entirely off record. It was safer for everyone.”

“So you just, what? Rocked up to the palace fresh from a warzone and-“ Myles flails an arm in Obi-Wan’s direction, more than likely to indicate the paint and outfits he usually wears. 

“It was a bit of a steep learning curve,” Obi-Wan admits. “Of course, no one really wanted to risk me staying around in case I did anything ‘too Jedi’. My homecoming was very public, so it wasn’t like they could kill me without an enormous scandal. The easiest solution was to get me married off as quickly as possible.”

Jango does the math in his head. Obi-Wan would have been on Stewjon for less than a year before his father and Jango’s began arranging their union. 

What must that be like? To lose everything for a cause not even your own, only to be seen as a problem to be solved the minute you’re back with your family? 

He’s been wondering why Jaster decided on Obi-Wan when forging the alliance, and here’s his answer. Jango’s _buir_ would only need to take one look at a traumatized teen, fresh from the horror of war and slavery, not safe with his own family. He’d do as he did for Jango and adopt him in a heartbeat. 

Or the very closest thing he could.

“Did he know?” Jango asks, his heart aching as he thinks of his father, and what he would make of all of this. “Jaster. Did he know you were a Jedi?”

“Officially, no,” Obi-Wan says. What he doesn’t say, what Jango can clearly see in the sudden, longing fondness in his eyes, is that Jaster wouldn’t need to be told. 

Jaster would look past the prince, past the _jetii_ , and see Obi-Wan. 

He did. He must have done. He looked, and he saw, and he decided that Obi-Wan would make Jango happy. 

And that Jango would make him happy in return. 

That was before Galidraan, before they were betrayed, but…

But Obi-Wan was already on Stewjon by that point. Already learning one brand new culture and preparing to step into another. 

The word he uses in place of _riduur_ … he used it before they were married. Before Galidraan. Before they lost ten years of the life that was supposed to be theirs. 

Pushing himself off the couch, he waves Obi-Wan back when he starts to follow. “Just…stay there for a minute, please.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t say anything, he simply nods rapidly, eager to show compliance. 

Jango heads into the fresher, collecting the towels Shmi dropped. Next to the tub there’s a round bowl, currently home to several floating candles. Jango ditches the candles and replaces the cold water with warm, then carries both back into the main room. 

Myles, always a step ahead of Jango, always knowing his mind better than Jango knows it himself, stands into the main doorway. They share a nod of agreement - they both have a lot that needs to be discussed - but for now, Myles is comfortable enough to leave them alone. 

Obi-Wan watches him approach with wary eyes, tracking him as he moves across the room and settles back down on the couch. Closer, this time. So much closer. 

The bowl rests on the cushion between them. Jango spreads the towel over his knees, then reaches out and carefully takes one of Obi-Wan’s bloody hands in his own. 

“When I signed our contract, I promised that you would be safe and respected here.” He says, gently lowering Obi-Wan’s hand into the water. The cuts on his fingers are shallow, the blood dried and crusted, so he rubs each one, washing away the grime.

Obi-Wan lets him, not once flinching or pulling back. “It's hardly your fault Dooku’s lost all sense of reason.”

Isn’t it? Kriff, a day ago, Jango could hate the _jetii_ in peace, now he has to contend not only with their new connection but with a highly unwanted sense of understanding. 

“That’s not how I failed you,” Jango says. Lifting his head now and looking Obi-Wan in the eyes takes more courage than stepping on to any battlefield. 

Obi-Wan hesitantly curls his fingers around Jango’s own, holding them below the surface of the rust-colored water. “Jango…”

“Don’t,” Jango says, pulling away as kindly as he can before returning to his task. “I… I need time. To figure this out. To make sense of everything.” To marry two very different emotions in his head. “But I swear to you now, Jedi or not, you will come to no harm from me.”

It’s not an easy promise to make, but he’s never meant anything with more conviction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you all thought I was gonna be mean! XD

**Author's Note:**

> While you're here you should [check out the amazing art Jars did of Obi-Wan when Jango first meets him](https://jars-artcollection.tumblr.com/post/634629912553275392/stewjoni-royal-obi-wan-for-beamirang-s-arragned)! [And of the Stewjoni Royal Guard!](https://beamirang.tumblr.com/post/637863748629135360/character-design-is-my-passion-royal-guard-design)! 
> 
> And the gorgeous drawing [Tosh did of Obi-Wan on their wedding night](https://beamirang.tumblr.com/post/636147318294462464/obi-wan-from-beamirangs-fic-fine-print-also)
> 
> OH! And Extreme Fluff also courtesy of Tosh [here](https://bureau-pinery.tumblr.com/post/639966035589660672/obi-wan-and-jango-from-beamirangs-fic-fine), from Chapter 26
> 
> [ And Nori Aphra's amazing illustration from Chapter 13! ](https://twitter.com/dreamlixir/status/1341241276117569536?s=20)90% of the time I spend not writing is lost staring and weeping over them and marveling at how lucky I am! 
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Mando'a
> 
> Riduur - spouse  
> Haar'chak - damnit  
> Ade - Children  
> Alor’aan - War Leader/General  
> Mando’akaata - Battalion of Mandalore  
> Mand’alor - Sole Ruler  
> Ori'ramikade - Supercommando  
> Jetii - Jedi  
> Buy'ce - Helmet
> 
> Stewjoni:
> 
> Grādh - Spouse


End file.
